The Adventure of the Dashboard Box
by Zoffoli
Summary: In which John and Sherlock are off to Surrey to solve the mystery of Alexander Holder's death. In which, the Holders being 'old friends' of the Holmes, John has to deal with Mummy, Harrods, a luxury fitness center and a Christmas Ball... among others.
1. Chapter 1: Mother Our mother

**************************************Disclaimer: **All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**A/N:** This was done for Sherlock Holmes Week 2012 on DA: it is the result of a challenge from JuweWright. I am _not_ going to put the very long and very crazy list of things I had to include in this fic, but be prepared! There shall be rain and wind, Harrods and a fitness center... Behold! ;p ~¤Zoffoli**  
N.B.: **This story was betaed in record time by Rianna Lauren, by Lugian before Swine, and by Salsify for the e-book version. All my thanks!

_~o~_

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**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

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**Chapter 1: ****_Mother. Our mother._**

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It was getting dark when the Chevrolet Volt took the path to the mansion's garage. Alexander Holder never liked leaving any of his cars out in the open during the night, even in the very broad park of his estate in Sussex. He came to a stop as the automatic garage door closed behind him. As he turned off his car engine, he saw a figure emerging from the darkness. He smiled when he stepped out of his car.

"Hello there! What are you doing here?"

"I saw the car coming down the alley and thought I'd come to meet you here – I was having a glass of wine, you see, and thought I'd share," the person said, handing Alexander the second glass he carried. Alexander's face brightened with a grin.

"Ooh. Which did you choose?"

"A Clos Saint Urbain, 1998. Found it in the cellar."

Alexander took the glass gratefully and took a sip.

"Uhm. Very good. But don't you think there's some aftertaste?"

"Really? I didn't notice."

They both drank again, tasting. Alexander started feeling a little dizzy.

"Weird, very weird. I think this wine is..."

He fell and crashed to the pavement before his car, forever leaving his sentence to hang in the air.

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_¤ oOo ¤ _

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In his Diogenes Club personal office, Mycroft was pensively studying a series of documents spread on his desk, when he was interrupted by the phone flashing (no ringing was allowed within the building, even if the walls of this office were soundproofed). The British Government frowned. He had asked not to be disturbed, regardless of the identity of the caller. If this call had made it through the reception desk, it could only be one person.

"Hello, Mummy?"

"Mycroft, darling. How are you doing?"

"Very well, Mummy. Is there anything I can do for you? Or is this about Sherlock?"

"Both, I'm afraid."

The elder of the Holmes brothers repressed a sigh, and allowed his face to crack into a thin smile.

"I'm listening."

"Mr. Holder was murdered yesterday."

"Did the police determine it to be murder?"

"No. That is why I would like you to look into it. You know the Holders are old friends of the family."

"I understand, Mummy. I shall put Sherlock on the case."

"Thank you, Mycroft. I knew I could count on you."

"You are aware that he is much more likely to set himself against me than you, aren't you?"

"I know, darling. But you know his pressure points. I am no longer familiar with them."

Mycroft smirked slightly.

"Indeed. Well, I will do what I can to convince him and will keep you informed."

"Thank you."

As he hung up, Mycroft glanced at the date indicated on his phone, and his eyes sparked. _December 20_. Oh, Mummy was clever. He picked his phone and dialled a number.

"Bring John Watson to me."

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_¤ oOo ¤ _

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"John. John!"

"I heard you the first time!" John protested from the kitchen. "What is it?"

"Bring me your gun."

"_What_?"

"Your gun, John! Bring it to me."

"No. You're bored."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed in irritation.

John rolled his eyes, but he couldn't prevent an amused smile from spreading across his face.

"I don't suppose you would come with me to get the groceries? You know, to occupy yourself."

Sherlock's disbelieving look and his miffed pout made it clear that he wouldn't. John sighed, and went out. He made it only as far as the street corner before a classy black car stopped beside him, and he came face to face with yet another beautiful stranger. _Damn the Holmes brothers_.

Mycroft was waiting for him in his usual office at the Diogenes. This time, John was wise enough not to utter a word before he arrived in the safety zone – if one could call it that.

"Dr. Watson! It's a pleasure to see you again. Do please take a seat."

"I'm fine. What do you want?"

"Were you in a hurry, perhaps?"

"To tell the truth, yes, Mycroft. I'm quite busy babysitting your brother – as I'm sure you well know."

Mycroft smiled with satisfaction.

"You will be glad to hear that I have a case for you, then."

John sighed resignedly.

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_¤ oOo ¤ _

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"Here. Got you a case. Happy?" John told his friend, handing him a purple file folder. Sherlock took it but after a glance, dropped it to the floor with disgust.

"It's from Mycroft."

"Yes, but– "

"I'm not taking it."

"But your mother–"

"Definitely not taking it."

John shook his head and decided to ignore his flatmate's comments. He opened the file and scanned it, briefing Sherlock on the case.

"Mr. Holder was apparently drugged and left to die in his car that was still running. The cause of death is carbon monoxide poisoning. A wine bottle and a glass were found in the car with him, along with a small empty package with traces of oxycodone. The police concluded suicide, but his wife was convinced that the analgesic couldn't have been self-administered."

"Boring."

"No, it's not! You're just saying this because we got the case from Mycroft!"

"_I _got the case. You were just used as a flunkey."

John's face darkened and he gritted his teeth.

"Right, nothing different than usual, then," he noted bitterly, slamming the file onto the table and leaving the room. Sherlock blinked, then stared at the staircase door. He frowned in annoyance, and rolled on his other side, facing the cushions of the couch sullenly.

He sulked for half an hour and then grew tired of even that when John failed to come back down. No, he wasn't feeling bad about it at all. Absolutely not. He'd done nothing wrong. But the room without John was even more boring, if that were possible.

So Sherlock sighed dramatically as he got up and scuffed his feet to the stairs. He climbed them and stopped in front John's door, knocking tentatively.

"John?"

No answer. Sherlock frowned. He knew his friend had gone up, and he hadn't heard him come down. An almost imperceptible noise confirmed his impression and told him John was indeed in the room. _Really upset, then_, the detective deduced.

"John? Are you hungry? We could get some dinner."

But his offer was greeted only by silence. Sherlock made an impatient moue. He couldn't think of anything else that could bring John out of his room – what better offer could he make than actually _eating _with him? As he racked his brain, a conversation they had had on John's blog suddenly popped up in his mind. He weighed up the pros and cons for a moment before he came to the conclusion that, all things considered, the sacrifice was worth it. _Bond or boredom? _Bond won.

"John? Remember that Bond night we talked about...?"

He trailed off, determined not to lower himself further. This was already sounding enough like begging, even if Sherlock didn't admit it to himself. Fortunately, his friend and flatmate was not only devoted, faithful and long-suffering, he also had a noted weak spot when it came to refusing Sherlock – unless it was for his own good (like the cigarettes). But this... This was almost sweet; the good doctor didn't want to push his luck. As soon as he opened the door, he saw Sherlock avert his gaze and turn to the stairs, hiding his expression. John just shook his head, and followed.

Sherlock's tolerance for pop culture didn't last very long, but John had come to enjoy his snappy remarks to the telly.

"You know they can't hear you, right?" he'd asked him once. Sherlock's eyes had hurled daggers and he had sulked in silence... for five minutes, perhaps. Then he'd resumed complaining about every detail.

"Come on! It's obvious she's not just any secretary! Is he an idiot? Or maybe she's just a bad actress."

His ranting was interrupted by his phone ringing. Sherlock picked up absent-mindedly, without looking at the number.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Sherlock."

His eyes widened.

"Mummy? How did you–"

"_Please_. I can still get a number, Sherly."

The detective frowned and John glanced at him, gesturing to ask if he should pause the movie. Sherlock shook his head curtly.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Actually, yes. I'm busy."

"Busy? Doing what?"

"Watching a DVD."

Confounded silence followed.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A movie, Mummy. From Russia, With Love," he added, taking a quick look at the DVD box. John shifted nervously in his seat.

"You are with your new attendant, I presume?"

At this, Sherlock's brow clouded visibly.

"My colleague."

"Yes, well. Perhaps he can help you with the case of Mr. Holder? His wife has taken the news quite terribly."

"To be fair," Sherlock commented off-handedly, "her husband has just died."

"It was murder. Alexander was found–"

"Yes, yes, I know, John told me all about it."

"Oh. So you have the insolence to interrupt me, but not him?"

Something in his mother's tone alerted Sherlock, some lingering threat that made him rather uncomfortable.

"Why do you want me on the case?" he finally asked, somewhat cautiously.

"There was a box."

"A box?" The detective frowned, now fully focused.

"Yes, one of those little black boxes sitting on the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel. It has three lights. The box has three lights and when the car's driver makes a 'fuel-wasting' or dangerous move, the LEDs go from green to yellow to red. The car is a Chevrolet Volt."

The superfluous detail fed Sherlock's annoyance, and he replied with a dry voice:

"And that is relevant because...?"

"It's gone. It wasn't found in the car, or anywhere in the garage."

Now, Sherlock's interest was piqued. John could see it on his face, feel it in the air; the sudden sense of thrill and adventure was back.

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_¤ oOo ¤ _

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Mycroft arranged a car for them and off they went to Surrey on what John had already decided to title The Adventure of the Dashboard Box. During the drive there, he went through the file again, reading out loud for Sherlock to hear (the spoiled git wouldn't bother scanning the file himself, on the excuse that it came from Big Brother).

"Alexander Holder, married to Gilda Holder for thirty-three years. Two children: Robert, 17, and Simon, 10. They live in the Holder family estate in Surrey, together with Arthur Holder, Alexander's older brother – a widower."

John looked up from his papers and at Sherlock, who was gazing out of the window, his face blank. John decided he would rather not actually know whether his friend had been listening or not.

"So, friends of the family? Guess it came as shock, hearing he'd just died."

"John. I wish I were never forced to see my brother. I hardly ever see my mother. What she calls "family friends" means people who attend her parties –a good hundred and fifty neighbours and various acquaintances. Do you really think I would care for such people?"

"Right. Sorry for asking," John mumbled back.

He wondered if Sherlock realized how cold he was to family members. John himself hadn't had the best of relationships with his parents before they died, not to mention his ongoing frustrations with Harry. Still, no matter how obtrusive and patronizing he was, Mycroft clearly cared a lot about Sherlock, and John was sure 'Mummy' truly did worry, too. He wondered what could have possibly happened for his friend to avoid seeing his family so determinedly. Then he reflected on Mycroft's personality and what he saw of it in Sherlock himself. If the entire Holmes family was like this, no wonder the detective fled them like the plague.

"So, your mother... She lives in Surrey, too?"

"Mm."

"Alone?"

Sherlock turned to John and stared pointedly.

"She's sixty-five, John."

It took the ex-soldier a moment before the meaning of Sherlock's remark dawned on him.

"I wasn't... no! Come on, Sherlock, I'm not that desperate!"

This earned him a glare, and he decided to shut up for the rest of the ride. So much for inquiring discreetly about Sherlock's father, he thought grumpily.

"He's dead."

John jumped.

"What?"

"My father. He died when I was seven. Cancer."

"Oh." John kept his eyes on the scenery, feeling a little uneasy about Sherlock reading his thoughts so easily. "I'm sorry."

"It was almost thirty years ago, John. And stop making that face."

"What face?" John protested.

"Your 'Am-I-really-that-readable?' face. If you really must know: you are."

"Now I know why you like me: I'm the best way to boost your gigantic ego," the doctor muttered in irritation.

"Don't be daft, John. If that were the reason, I could've chosen anyone at all."

_Pretentious twat_, John thought. Then he blinked.

"What's the reason, then?"

"Here we are!" Sherlock exclaimed, getting out of the car swiftly. John sighed. _Running away again_, he mused, following. As he took in his surroundings, he couldn't help but be filled with admiration.

"God, how rich was this guy?"

"Very rich. But this isn't his house."

John arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Then whose is it?"

"Mine," a deep, elegant voice chided in. "Welcome back, Sherly."

John froze. Sherlock's eyes turned to slits at the nickname, but he replied composedly:

"Hello, Mummy."

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**TBC**

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_~o~_


	2. Chapter 2: The little black box

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**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

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**Chapter 2: ****_The little black box_**

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As he took in his surroundings, John couldn't help but be filled with admiration.

"God, how rich was this guy?"

"Very rich. But this isn't his house."

John arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Then whose is it?"

"Mine," a deep, elegant voice chided in. "Welcome back, Sherly."

John froze. Sherlock's eyes turned to slits at the nickname, but he replied composedly:

"Hello, Mummy."

"Mummy?" John repeated dumbly, in shock.

The tall, august woman smiled thinly. She had an aquiline profile, and her regal stance commanded respect.

"You are awfully quick in calling me that, dear," she said with amusement. "Dr. Watson, I presume?"

John blushed furiously and cursed his clumsiness.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean–"

"That's quite fine," she brushed off with an aristocratic gesture of the hand. She turned to her son: "I had two rooms prepared, but if that's a problem..."

"Stop teasing him," Sherlock cut in jadedly. "He's quite touchy on the subject. And you _know_ it isn't a problem. John, won't you get the suitcase?"

John grumbled something about the insufferable git who didn't even bother to tell him they were staying at his family's house. Mrs. Holmes' smile only grew wider before her face fell grave again.

"Gilda is inside with Arthur and Simon. I thought you'd like to talk with them right away."

"Naturally. That's what I came for."

His tone wasn't even cold, but John, who was coming back with their luggage, found the remark rather dry. Not something a parent would enjoy hearing, surely. Then again, how would he know?

The Holmes' mansion was huge, and the doctor didn't even want to know how big the park was. The inside was surprisingly well-decorated – and by that, John meant it wasn't too pompous. No grandiose gold ornamentation or excessively ostentatious pieces of furniture. At least, the house didn't feel like a museum.

"It's not as bad as I had imagined," he blurted out loud, realizing what he'd just said just too late. Fortunately, Mrs. Holmes was already walking towards the Holders, who had been waiting in a beautiful drawing room looking on a garden patio. Sherlock was the only one who had heard his spontaneous comment, so John sighed in relief. The detective's lips curved up wryly.

"I concur," he let out in a murmur, before stepping forward to greet the old 'family friends'.

Gilda Holder was a very pretty woman whose age did not impair her charm. Her make-up wasn't heavy yet clearly noticeable, and if she didn't shared Mrs. Holmes's imperial beauty, she had her own assets and appeared more accessible, so to speak. But her eyes were red and there were dark rings under them.

"Oh, Sherlock... Look how big you've become! You're a fine man, such a fine man."

Anticipating that his friend was probably going to retort something tactless or snappy, John nudged him discreetly, and sent him a glance sideways.

"I am sorry the reason for our meeting again is such a grim one," Sherlock said simply.

Mrs. Holder's lips quivered, and her brother-in-law put a supportive hand on her shoulder. He too looked exceedingly tired and quite worried for his sister-in-law. Her younger on the other hand was showing a furrowed brow, his gaze rather wary, as if he'd been on his guard.

"Come here, Simon. You've never met Sherlock, have you?" Then, to Sherlock: "I'm sorry Robert couldn't make it, he was sleeping at Hatty's last night."

"Simon's older brother's girlfriend," Arthur told John, who wondered why in the world he was addressing him specifically.

Simon didn't seem to care much for Sherlock, but he obeyed and stepped closer to his mother, his eyes fixed on the consulting detective.

"You've grown up to be so tall and handsome, Sherlock!" Mrs. Holder exclaimed with a catch in her voice.

Mrs. Holmes turned to hide a smirk, but John noticed and smiled. Sherlock scowled, obviously thinking she was mocking him, as he was much too used to irony. As for Simon, as he looked the detective over from top to bottom, his pout indicated that if he agreed on the 'tall' part, he highly doubted the 'handsome' one.

An awkward silence was threatening to stretch, but John was too busy repressing a giggle to take care of it. Finally, Sherlock demanded rather curtly:

"Well. Perhaps you could show me the crime scene, then?"

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_¤ oOo ¤ _

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There wasn't much left to see of the 'crime scene'.

"The police have been here," Sherlock seethed.

"Of course," Arthur replied. He had been the one to accompany them to the garage, for Mrs. Holder still couldn't take a step into it. Robert had been the one to find his father dead, but the subsequent sight of her lifeless husband was still ingrained in Gilda's mind. She hadn't slept at all since the dreadful event.

Sherlock immediately set to nosing about, tracking down any overlooked clues. This left John to do all the talking with the brother of the victim.

"I'm sure the police must have asked you all of this already, but–"

"No, no, don't worry. Mrs. Holmes recommended you heartily."

"Sherlock, you mean," John mumbled, taking out his notebook to write down whatever Arthur was going to tell him.

"The both of you," Mr. Holder insisted obligingly.

"The report says the victim... your brother, took oxycodone with a glass of wine."

"They concluded suicide," Arthur confirmed darkly. John looked up, curious to see his expression.

"And you don't think it is?"

He smiled sadly. "I would rather not, Dr. Watson. I would rather not. He was my brother, and to think he could have ended his own life, when we were _right there_..."

"In the house, you mean?"

"Not only that. We all lived together. He never struck me as depressed, or distressed over any matter. If he _did_ commit suicide, we must have all missed something."

He shook his head bitterly. John kept an eye on Sherlock, who was now examining the inside of the car, bending in ways that just shouldn't be allowed. _What are you doing, Sherlock?_

"Can you tell me a bit more about the wine? Was it one he especially liked?"

Sherlock's head emerged from the car to stare at John, his look clearly saying: _why are you wasting your time asking stupid questions?_

"It was a very good wine, A Clos Saint Urbain, 1998. Alex always appreciated a good glass of wine, but I've never heard him say anything special about this one. We're all connoisseurs in the family, you see – even young Robert! His parents initiated him to wine when he was 13, and they were quite right, I believe. Don't you think wine is an important part of general knowledge?"

John blinked.

"Of course."

"Did that little black box on the dashboard represent anything of importance to your brother?" Sherlock suddenly asked, joining them.

"Of importance?" Arthur asked perplexedly. "It's just a device that monitors how drivers perform so they can keep themselves in check and improve their driving – and reduce carbon emissions. Alexander was very eco-friendly, you see."

"I see," Sherlock trailed off, obviously uninterested.

"But maybe Hatty will be able to tell you more about it? I think her father worked on the project back in California – she's from San Francisco."

"Robert's girlfriend?" John asked, more in an attempt to attract Sherlock's attention rather than really making sure of the fact.

Arthur nodded.

"She's a nice girl. You'll probably meet her today, since they're coming for lun– Oh, here they are! Hello Robert, Hatty."

The two teenagers had indeed just entered the garage. Robert was tall and looked very much like his mother. He was very pale, however, and his complexion was sallow. Like all of the other Holders, he looked exhausted. He looked around the garage nervously, taking his girlfriend's hand. Hatty was a slim, fair-haired young girl, with chestnut brown eyes and freckles. She was even paler than Robert, and John thought she was about to faint. She didn't, however, and both came up to them timidly.

"Mum told us you were here. She said Mr. Holmes would probably like to see us," the young Holder said.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

"Oh, and this is my girlfriend, Hatty Doran," he added, looking at her apologetically. She nodded.

Sherlock was about to say "I know", but he was cut off by John stamping pointedly on his foot. The consulting detective misunderstood his friend, though, and took his warning as a reproach.

"...Right. This is John Watson, my partner."

All eyes turned to him, and then to John, who was staring at his friend in disbelief. Sherlock caught his glare, and amended quickly:

"My colleague." Then, back to the matter at hand: "So, tell me, Robert, when you found the body, had the little black box already disappeared?"

"What?" the teenager said, confused.

"The box," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "On the dashboard."

"I don't know, I... That's not the first thing you notice when your father is lying dead in front of you!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned.

"He was lying? Not sitting?"

John rolled his eyes. _God, Sherlock. _

"What are you talking about? That's just a–"

"Sitting, then. Good."

"Good?" Robert echoed, not believing this man was supposed to be a professional.

Hatty nudged him gently, encouraging him to keep calm.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said. "It was only two days ago. You have to understand... it's hard to lose your own father when you're still so young. And it was so unexpected too..."

John glanced at Sherlock, but his face was inscrutable. His next sentence, though, eased John's worries.

"Father. Your father. He lives in California, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does," Hatty answered, surprised that a complete stranger would know such a thing. She exchanged a confused gaze with her boyfriend.

"Arthur told me he worked on the conception of that little black box thing."

"LBB," Mr. Holder corrected with a frown, anxious to make it clear that he hadn't used such a clumsy phrasing.

"So he's an engineer?" Sherlock pressed her, now ignoring Robert. "That's a nice job. Is it what you'd like to become too?" John arched an eyebrow, wondering how that could possibly have any relevance to the case. Oh well. He'd find out soon enough.

"No. I'm more interested in languages. I'd rather be a translator."

"Oh, would you? Well, that's nice too. One last thing, Hatty, do you think there could have been anything hidden inside the little black box? Could Alexander – or someone else – have used it to store something secretly?"

Hatty shivered, and furrowed her brow.

"I guess. But that would probably impair the functioning of the box. It wasn't made to store things. And the object would have to be very small. I don't think it's possible."

"I see. Well. Shall we go in to lunch?"

The detective gave one of his sweet, fake smiles, smiles that he reserved for victims – or for John, which, in some way, amounted to the same thing. It didn't have the same purpose, though. For victims or suspects, it was used to fool. To John, it only told the doctor he was doomed.

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_¤ oOo ¤ _

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Lunch turned out to be quite an experience. Hatty had gone back home, but John and Sherlock had stayed to eat with the Holders. John was much too concentrated on remembering whatever he'd learned about table etiquette – or hadn't, for that matter – to pay full attention to the other people. Sherlock, however, was observing every detail, accumulating data for further use. In fact, his observations had already allowed him to make some deductions. _Obvious_, he thought.

"How long will you be staying at your mother's, Sherlock?" Mrs. Holder inquired, her voice trembling slightly. She seemed indeed quite shattered by her husband's sudden death.

"Just the time necessary to solve the case."

"He means we'll stay as long as it takes to clear up the questions about your husband's death."

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking. Sherlock looked at his friend with amusement _You're the one who made her cry. Not me_, his eyes smirked.

Simon was staring at his mother, pity in his eyes. Robert averted his gaze. The elder brother was on edge, and he kept glancing at the clock, agitated. _Keen to see the girlfriend again, aren't you? _Sherlock mused, completely incapable of understanding such ridiculous infatuation. He watched as the teenager bent down to pick his napkin that he kept dropping, this time nearly knocking over his wine glass in the process. He sat up and glanced at the clock again, wringing his hands. The poor boy looked ready to snap any minute.

"Are you really going back to Hatty's this afternoon?" Mrs. Holder asked in a shaky voice to her son. He nodded dryly. Her eyes filled with tears all over again. "I understand. And you, Arthur, are you going to the gym?"

"You don't work?" Sherlock asked the man suddenly. Arthur seemed offended at the assumption.

"Of course I do. I thought you knew. I am a chef. Alexander was talented with business, and I was more the artistic one. He ended up as a steel magnat and I opened a restaurant."

"So... what is the gym?"

"The fitness centre my brother and I attend...ed." He looked away, swallowing with some difficulty. Sherlock was patient for once, and waited until he found his voice again. "I closed the restaurant until the funeral. Gilda insists that I should go to the gym to refresh my mind and exercise a bit, but..."

"And you really should," she murmured.

"...but the last time I went, I was with Alex."

"Was it on the day he died?" Sherlock inquired right away.

_Timing, Sherlock,_ John told him with a look. The detective pouted.

"Yes. He wanted to go to Harrods that day, so we went to the gym very early in the morning. If I had known..."

"And where will you go this afternoon?" Sherlock cut in, addressing Mrs. Holder. She tried to dry her tears.

"I was thinking of going to the little cottage."

"The little cottage?"

She nodded, a lump in her throat.

"Alexander built this little cottage on the other side of our woods. It's a lovely place, an epitome of eco-friendly architecture and housing..." Her voice quivered, and she trailed off, lost in her memories.

Sherlock repressed a sigh at all the pathos, and started glancing at the clock too. _Teenaged boys_, John mused, his eyes on his flatmate and Robert Holder.

Silence filled the room.

"Would you like some more wine, Mr. Holmes?" Arthur offered, trying to dispel the uneasiness around the table. Or what he felt as uneasiness, anyway. Sherlock was in fact busy deducing, and John was trying to figure out which fork to use.

"No, thank you," John replied in his stead. Sherlock stared. John blushed. He'd thought Sherlock was too focused on the case to bother answering, and so had just answered _for him_. As it turned out, though, it had very much sounded like he thought Arthur had addressed _him_ as 'Mr. Holmes'. The blush turned crimson.

"Sherlock doesn't drink while on a case."

Sherlock snorted, and murmured to his friend: "Don't make me look like some sort of some alcoholic just because you assume I can't think and listen at the same time."

John wished he could disappear. He actually didn't need to feel that self-conscious, though. Mrs. Holder was too busy staring at her plate through her tears; Arthur was staring too concernedly at Mrs. Holder; Simon was staring too warily at Arthur; and Robert was staring too impatiently at the clock for any of them to notice his embarrassment.

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_¤ oOo ¤_

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After lunch, Mrs. Holder brought Sherlock and John back to the Holmes's estate, and, as she joined Mrs. Holmes in the boudoir, both men retired to their rooms. Or, more precisely, to Sherlock's.

John fell into a chair, exhausted.

"God, no wonder you never eat! That lunch gave me a headache."

Sherlock smirked knowingly.

"Here." He handed him a small bottle of ibuprofen he'd just removed from his bag.

John wasn't sure whether he should be touched by the attention or piqued that Sherlock was so damned perceptive and always seemed to know everything before everyone. Between gratefulness and annoyance, he settled for friendly banter.

"So... _Sherly?_" A wide grin spread across John's face.

To his surprise, Sherlock's eyes didn't turn to the expected slits. Instead, they sparkled with amusement.

"You're one to talk. _Mr. Holmes._"

John groaned as he buried his head in the pillow. "Oh, shut up."

Sherlock beamed in victory.

"So," he went on, "tomorrow, we shall go back to London to look into Mr. Holder's business at Harrods. This afternoon, I am going to the 'little cottage' with Mrs. Holder. And you are going to the fitness centre."

"Yes, sure... Wait, _what?"_

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**TBC**

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_~o~_


	3. Chapter 3: The ring and the diamond

_~o~_

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**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

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**Chapter 3: ****_The Ring and the Diamond_**

* * *

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"So... _Sherly?_" A wide grin spread across John's face.

To his surprise, Sherlock's eyes didn't turn to the expected slits. Instead, they sparkled with amusement.

"You're one to talk. _Mr. Holmes._"

John groaned, burying his head in the pillow. "Oh, shut up."

Sherlock beamed. _I won. _

"So," he went on, "tomorrow, we shall go back to London to look into Mr. Holder's business at Harrods. This afternoon, I am going to that 'little cottage' with Mrs. Holder. And you are going to the fitness centre."

"Yes, sure... Wait, _what_?"

"The fitness centre, John," Sherlock repeated somewhat impatiently. "The gym Alexander and his brother usually went to."

John blinked.

"You want me to go there and ask what, exactly? I doubt they're going to tell me anything at the desk anyway. I'm not a police officer, and unless you have the badge of some local D.I., I–"

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "No, John, you're not going to ask at the desk. You're becoming a member."

"A member," John echoed, completely lost.

"Yes, a member! You have to talk to the other members to know what they thought about the two Holders' relationship to each other. Hearing Arthur, they were the best of friends. But Mummy told me they didn't actually like each other much."

"When did she tell you that?" John wondered, frowning.

"Over the phone. When I called to ask her to collect some proper clothing for you."

"For the gym?"

"Of course, for the gym! Please do try to keep up."

"But Sherlock, I don't look posh enough to go to some luxury fitness centre for rich people!"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's fine if you come across as a _nouveau riche_."

John growled. _He's not even denying it._ "I don't even have the money to look even newly rich, Sherlock."

"You'll be wearing expensive sportswear, and you'll have a platinum credit card. I don't think they'll be in a position to say anything disobliging."

The poor doctor groaned, getting up from the bed. "But why don't _you_ go? You're a Holmes, they probably know your family."

"Don't be stupid, John. I would look ridiculous in a fitness centre."

"Because I won't?"

"Of course not. You're well-built."

John was so reluctant to go he didn't even notice the underlying compliment.

"People go to fitness centres to _become_ well-built, Sherlock! Just go yourself!"

The consulting detective pouted. "Why are you being so difficult today?"

"I'm not being difficult," John retorted promptly.

"Unless you'd rather go to the cottage with Mrs. Holder?" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Look, John, I know she's a widow, but–"

"Sherlock! Would you please stop implying I'm interested in old women?"

"Old women? I hope you weren't talking about me."

John froze. Mrs. Holmes came into the room, and only then did he realize that they hadn't even closed the door.

"Gilda is waiting for you downstairs, Sherly. Please try to at least act nice with her, will you?"

_You can only ask him to act it out,_ John mused, repressing a chuckle.

Sherlock scowled at John's smirk, but Mrs. Holmes's lips curved up slightly, her eyes twinkling.

"Now, Dr. Watson, shall we dress you up?" She gave him a sweet, sweet smile. John knew he was doomed.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

The drive to the Holders' little cottage on the other side of the woods was lovely. The countryside was a very pleasant sight, but Sherlock paid little attention to the scenery beyond taking note of the exact route they took.

"That doctor, he seems very nice," Gilda commented. Her voice was still shaky, but her eyes were dry. The emotion in her tone betrayed her shocked, grieving state, undoubtedly aggravated by lack of sleep. Still, Sherlock wondered if he shouldn't offer to drive in her place.

"Your mother told me you live together?"

"He's my flatmate," he specified absent-mindedly. Then, as an afterthought: "My colleague, too."

"That's a shame, though, two proper men like you, not even married yet. I thought your friend would be. He looked very fatherly to me. Don't you want to be a father, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, then glanced at her with a little startled frown. What was that woman on about?

"I was only twenty when Alexander and I met. I remember I was terrified when I met his mother for the first time!" She laughed wistfully. "But Arthur was a darling, and it all went well in the end."

"So, you got along well with the whole family?"

"Oh, yes. When I moved into the house poor Mrs. Holder had already passed away. Robert and Simon never got to meet their grandmother and their grandfather died when Simon was only one."

"Wasn't it a bit difficult though, to live with your brother-in-law all the time? Surely there must have been some awkward moments," Sherlock insisted.

Gilda chuckled lightly.

"Of course there were. That's why Alexander had the little cottage built, you see. It was our love nest."

At the words, her tears welled back up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that's lovely. So only you and he had keys?"

She smiled fondly. "No. When Robert and Hatty celebrated their first anniversary together, we gave Robert a copy of the key – he'd been mentioning the cottage in every conversation for months so we had gathered that he'd like to have access to it too. There is only one bedroom, but we have a couch that can turn into a bed and since they mostly spend their time watching DVDs, they prefer the living-room anyway. Besides that, there was another key to our personal room and we did not give Robert a copy of that one."

Sherlock nodded distractedly, his brain scanning the data he was provided for any relevant information. He would not delete anything until the end of the case were soon driving into the woods to arrive at the cottage. It was, indeed, a model for eco-friendly architecture and new "green" technologies, with its straw bales, structural insulated panels, and insulated concrete forms.

"Here we are," she murmured, a catch in her voice. "Let's go in."

They crossed through a charming little garden before entering the house. Indoors, it smelled like peppermint and rose, but Sherlock also noticed an almost imperceptible odour of tobacco, as if the smoker had opened all windows to try to get rid of the smell.

"Did you or your husband smoke?" he asked Mrs. Holder, as he examined every detail of the rooms they were walking through.

She looked up in surprise.

"No. Neither Alexander nor I smoked. Arthur does, though, but he's trying to quit. Doctor's orders. But you know what it's like," she said with a knowing smile.

_Except I live with mine_, Sherlock thought with a moue as her words called up the memory of John refusing to let him leave the flat before he'd eaten something. It had been in the middle of a case, to boot.

Sherlock looked around the house, Mrs. Holder on his heels. When they arrived at the closed bedroom door, she came to a halt.

"I can open it for you, but I won't go in. I'm sorry, it's just..."

Her throat was so tight she couldn't finish her sentence, so she just turned the key in the knob before pushing the door open.

"When did you come here last with your husband?" he asked as he went in.

"Last weekend... We had just bought the children's Christmas presents."

Sherlock could tell with one look that no one had been here since then. He also noticed there was no underlying scent of tobacco in this room.

"Fine. Thank you for showing me around. We can go back."

They locked the room and the house behind them, and as they went back to the car, Sherlock inquired:

"Do you always lock the door?"

"Of course. And so does Robert. We've never had any problems here, but a month ago we had a break-in at the mansion."

"And did they take anything?"

"Oh, yes. Alexander and I weren't there that night – we were sleeping over here, in the cottage. They somehow got past the alarm, and rummaged through a few rooms, including ours."

"What did they take?" Sherlock pressed in, annoyance in his voice.

"A 2 1/2 carat diamond Alexander bought me for our tenth anniversary."

Sherlock frowned pensively. They drove back through the woods quietly, Mrs. Holder lost in nostalgia.

"Is there any alternate route to the one we took?" the detective wondered out loud, interrupting her reminiscence.

"No, that's the only one. Actually, there wasn't any to start with, and Alexander had this path made."

Silence fell over them again. After a moment, Mrs. Holder shifted a little nervously on her seat.

"Sherlock, I have a favour to ask you."

He arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Tomorrow, Simon has a football game in London. Arthur and I will be able to make it there, but we have an appointment at the... at the funeral home in the morning, and the children have to be there around midday. Did you and John plan on going back to London today? I think your mother mentioned you wanted to go to Harrods."

Sherlock stared.

"You want us to take your son to London tonight?" he reformulated, disbelieving.

She nodded in embarrassment, and quickly added: "Of course if that's too much trouble, I'll understand, but... The poor boy was so happy to have been selected for the game, and he just lost his father too... I was surprised to hear he still wanted to participate, but that is a good thing. He's a fighter, you see."

"But where will he be staying if you're not in town?"

Mrs. Holder shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, your mother told me you had a three story house with a spare room and a housekeeper, so..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _M__ummy_. "I have a flat. And she's my landlady," he grumbled.

"I see," Mrs. Holder murmured brokenly. Then Sherlock remembered.

"_Please play the role of a nice boy with her, will you?"_ Sherlock groaned. _So that's what she mea__nt. _Cursing the deviousness of his mother, he turned to Mrs. Holder with a smile and said:

"I'll gladly sleep on the couch. And our landlady is the best woman I've met – she'll be delighted to take care of Simon if John and I are out." The widow's face brightened with gratitude.

"Oh, thank you, Sherlock! Thank you!"

The consulting detective nodded with an amiable smile, and took his phone out to send a text to John.

_**You're sleeping on the couch tonight**_.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

John had been forced by Mrs. Holmes to borrow her car to go to the gym.

"Just say you're a friend of the Holmes's, and that you're currently staying at the manor," she'd said with a smile.

John trusted his skills as a driver, but he would've rather driven some old wreck, rather than a Bentley. _A Holmes's Bentley, _John thought nervously, not wanting to know what would become of him if he gave the car back with a scratch on it. He shivered as he recalled the compelling power of "Mummy". No wonder Sherlock was rather wary of his family.

"_So tell me, Dr. Watson, what are your plans for Christmas?"_

John had been rather startled by the question.

"Well, I just assumed I'd be spending it at 221B with Sherlock."

"Oh, didn't he tell you? I'll be having a party on the 25th, and he'll be attending. You're very welcome to join us, if you have no one to spend it with."

John had frowned at the wording, which he had found a little too full of pity for his taste.

"That's very kind of you, but–"

"Oh, don't be shy," she had chided gently as she showed him into a room where several pieces of sportswear were laid out on the bed. "I'm sure Sherly will be delighted. And perhaps you could meet someone?"

John had stared with wide eyes. _Is she trying to hook me up? _he had wondered, in a daze. God, the Holmes must have been born to the world to drive people crazy.

She had been so insistent, though, he hadn't dare refuse her. And if Sherlock was going, it couldn't be too bad, although John was a little piqued that his friend hadn't even told him he wouldn't be there for Christmas. Not that they'd made any explicit plan to spend it together, but...

As John was parking in front of the fancy gym the two brothers had been attending, his phone vibrated in his pocket. For once, he didn't check his messages immediately, as he'd growned accustomed to since he'd met Sherlock, and so he waited until he'd stepped out of the car.

_**You're sleeping on the couch tonight.**_

_What? _Cursing the self-centred git, the doctor didn't even bother to reply. He took a deep breath before going in the centre.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?" said the lady at the desk. She was very pretty, but John remembered he was on a mission, so to speak, and set aside the thought of flirting.

"Hello. I would like to sign up for a full membership." He hoped his voice sounded aristocratic enough, but highly doubted it did. _Oh well. Let's just stick to the whole new to being rich thing. _

"Would you like a full or a half-year membership?"

"A half-year will be fine, thank you." _Actually, just an hour would be fine. _But Mrs. Holmes had agreed to pay for the full membership if it helped solve the case. Apparently, only members of the club were granted access to certain training rooms, and the Holder brothers were more likely to have been regulars in those.

Sherlock's mother seemed quite dedicated to the Holders, in fact, and John wondered if his friend hadn't been wrong to brush off their relationship as mere acquaintances. Oh well. Perhaps Mrs. Holmes had a lot of money to spare. It didn't cross John's mind that she could have used this case – and the membership at the gym – for entirely different motives.

Once he'd signed over a ridiculous amount to get his member card, John entered and headed towards the large, luxurious locker rooms. The gym was huge: in addition to the training rooms, there was a spa and a shop with a retail area.  
Personally, John would've gone for the weight training, but since Arthur had mentioned the cardio machines, he decided he should try those first.

His face was unfamiliar to the attending members of the club, and John could feel the eyes on him. He was so self-conscious he almost tripped on a machine and cursed under his breath, before hopping onto one of the bikes and pushing the buttons at random. _Why are these things so convoluted? _he moaned mentally. Soon, though, he was riding vigorously, trying to ignore the curious glances.

"Hello, there! You're new here, aren't you?"

John looked up to meet the gaze of the old man riding next to him. John blinked. The stranger looked nothing like what he would have expected to find in such a place. He was wearing bright green sportswear that contrasted sharply with his sunburnt, crumpled skin. His white hair was long to his shoulders, and tied into a low tail. His grin was crooked, but for some reason John found he inspired trust: true weirdos were never really the most suspicious ones.

"Hi," he replied, a smile on his lips. "You're right, I'm new. Doesn't seem to happen a lot around here."

The old man laughed.

"Oh well, we get the in-laws and nephews and-he waved his hand vaguely-sometimes, but they usually all disappear after a month or two."

John wasn't quite sure whether the man was joking or not.

"I'm John Watson," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Sam," the stranger said. His not adding a last name didn't bother John too much-he seemed well-enough known around here that no one else was staring at him. Mrs. Holmes would surely be able to fill in his name if it were needed.

"So, John, what brings you here to Surrey? Just moved house?"

_Oh God, I don't want to go there, _John thought.

"About to. I'm currently staying at the Holmes'."

"Ooh. Mrs. Holmes! The Titanium Lady."

"The Titanium Lady?"

"Yes, that's what I call her. But don't tell her, ha ha!"

_Who the hell is this guy? _John was stunned.

"So, you're staying at the Holmes's. Better that than the Holders anyhow!"

This caught John's attention.

"The Holders? Didn't one of them die just a couple of days ago?" he asked innocently.

"That he did. Young Alex. It always was a peculiar family."

John tilted his head to the side, trying to look as innocent as possible – he would have been appalled to know how well he managed the lost newcomer's expression.

"How so?"

"Two men for a woman, that's never good, is it?"

John frowned. "But Mrs. Holder was married to Alexander," he protested weakly.

The old man shrugged.

"What's a piece of paper signed decades ago?"

"She was shattered by the news, though, and is still very much affected, I can tell you," the ex-soldier replied coldly, a little shocked at the other man's lack of sympathy. He didn't realize the mistake he'd just made.

"Oh, so you know her?" the old man asked, arching an eyebrow as his grin twisted even more crookedly.

John slapped himself mentally. "She's a friend of Mrs. Holmes. I met her yesterday."

"A friend? Ha ha ha! The Holmes don't _have_ friends."

"Why?" John was very surprised to hear someone say that of the whole family, especially since Mrs. Holmes seemed to be quite the socialite.

"Because they're too smart."

The flat reply was so comical John couldn't help but chuckle, and soon the stranger joined him.

"But back to Gilda Holder: you seem to have been quite dazzled by her charms. She was an actress, you know. And everybody acts around here anyway. Some are just better actors than others, ha ha!"

"Were the Holder brothers good actors?" John insisted.

The man's expression grew thoughtful.

"I suppose so," Sam replied, "since they managed to appear civil and even friendly towards each other even though didn't have the best of relationships."

"They didn't?"

"Ha ha ha! As I said, one woman for two men, never good, never good… Anyhow, young Alex was always more interested by his business than family matters. He wasn't a bad father, and he probably loved his wife very much. But he was rather absent-minded. And you know, when you live with someone in the same house, the tension is bound to rise…"

He laughed again, and John, who knew all too well what living with another person could entail, chuckled knowingly.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

.

"The two brothers didn't get along well," John reported as he let himself fall, exhausted, into an armchair in Sherlock's room. "And Mrs. Holder used to be an actress," he added, summing up what he'd learnt at the gym.

Sherlock was on John's laptop, scanning the screen.

"Good," he commented, and John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was talking about what he'd said, or what Sherlock was seeing on the computer.

Sherlock looked up at his friend and took in his limp posture. He smirked; John glared.

"The old man I was talking with did more miles than I did on those bike machines, because I was paying attention to his words, so…"

"… so you decided you should do at least as much or your pride wouldn't recover."

John rolled his eyes.

"We're going back to London today."

John noted that his friend was rather fidgety, but didn't remark on it. He saw the detective had packed all their things already and frowned confusedly.

"Wait, why are we taking our luggage back, since—"

"Naturally, you should just leave it here," Mrs. Holmes's voice chimed in, as she entered the room with little Simon.

"Why should we leave it here?" Sherlock snapped back.

She smiled sweetly. "Because you're coming back for the party, of course."

"No we're not." The detective's tone was implacable. John shrank.

"Um, I thought you—" he began.

"Well, Dr. Watson is coming. If you want to sulk alone in your flat, Sherly, you can just leave his luggage."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned to his flatmate in reproachful bewilderment. John almost recoiled. "I thought you were already going, your mother said you'd be—"

The outnumbered detective sighed in exasperation, and dashed out of the room without a word – and without taking his luggage. John looked up at Mrs. Holmes.

"What just happened?"

"Merely Sherlock being a child. But aren't we all used to that?" Her grin broadened. "Even little Simon here can be more mature, can't you Simon?"

The boy stared back, his gaze doubtful. _You want me to spend the night with these two?_ Mrs. Holmes seemed to get his message, for she smiled reassuringly.

"Don't worry, dear, you'll be just fine. There's this nice doctor here, and a housekeeper too. And it's only for one night."

John blinked. "What?"

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

The car ride was very quiet, except for John's numerous (and failed) attempts at starting a conversation with the youngest Holder. Sherlock was sulking on the passenger's seat, looking out of the window pointedly. Simon gave the most laconic of replies to John's questions, and soon the ex-soldier gave up, annoyed with the two brats. Well, one had the excuse of having just lost his father, at least.

When they arrived at 221B Baker Street, John enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's warm greeting.

"Hello, boys! Mycroft called to say you'd have a guest tonight. I wish you had told me in advance."

"Sorry, I just learnt it before we left," the doctor apologized with a smile.

"Hello Simon! I'm Mrs. Hudson, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"It's a pleasure to meet you too. Are you the housekeeper?"

Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised and a little offended at the assumption.

"No, dear, I'm—"

"…our landlady!" Sherlock barked from the car sullenly. "John, get in the car. We still have time to go to Harrods – it closes at eight."

Mrs. Hudson glanced at John questioningly, and he sighed.

"Well… Simon, why don't you come in? I prepared some tea and cookies, if you'd like them," she offered as she guided the child in.

"We'll see you later, Simon," John confirmed. The boy nodded, and followed the landlady obediently. John got back into the car and stared at his infuriating friend.

"What is wrong with you?" he snapped. "Can't you stop moping now? I already apologized. Your mother told me you were going, and—"

"And you were stupid enough to believe her," Sherlock finished curtly.

"She can trick even you! Just stop being such an insufferable twat!" John exploded. Sherlock was so surprised he blinked twice and whined in a smaller voice:

"But I don't want to go…"

"Well, I am going," John replied flatly as he started the car.

"Why?" Sherlock was nonplussed.

"To meet someone!" John's tone clearly stated the discussion was over. He drove through town with a scowl on his face, tight-lipped. Sherlock looked at him in shock, but didn't dare make any more comments.

After they had parked in Harrods Car Park, they entered the actual store. John was very glad Sherlock had insisted on him still wearing the fancy clothes Mrs. Holmes had lent him that morning.

"So... how do we proceed?" he asked.

"Well. We go to the Fine Jewellery Room. I show my badge and ask a few questions, then we come out."

John blinked.

"Wait, wait... the fine jewellery room? Why? How do you know?"

"Didn't you notice? Mrs. Holder only wears AS29 and Georg Jensen jewellery."

"And...?"

"And Alexander Holder spent £5,025 the day he died. I determined it was at Harrods. I also deduced it was a piece of jewellery for his wife, since they had already bought the presents for their children."

"What about his brother?"

Sherlock stared.

"As you found out yourself, John, they didn't get along well. They wouldn't have bothered with Christmas presents to each other. Most brothers don't."

John smirked, but decided not to make any comment.

"Wait. How do you know how much money he spent on the day he died?"

"I hacked his bank account online."

"You _what_? From _my _laptop?"

"It was easy. Just had to find the two secret codes."

"I don't even want to know."

"You won't," Sherlock replied with a smile.

"Hello. Police. I need to ask you a few questions."

The saleswoman looked up in surprise to glance at the badge and authorization document Sherlock was waving at her.

"What can I do for you, Inspector Lestrade?"

"We are investigating Alexander Holder's death. We know that he made a purchase here on the day he died, but nothing was found on him or in his car, so we think the killer might have stolen the item. Do you remember him coming here on December 19?"

"Well, let me check… " She scrolled down her computer's screen, her eyes scanning for the name. "Yes, he did visit our store on December 19. He purchased an AS29 White Pave Diamond Flower ring. It is an 18kt white gold flower ring decorated with sparkling white diamonds – a wear-forever addition to every jewellery collection."

"£5,025, was it?" Sherlock asked dismissively.

She was startled by the precision of the question, but nodded composedly.

"Yes, indeed. The £5,025 model. Would you like to see it?"

"No. Thank you for your cooperation."

Once they had left the Fine Jewellery Room, John whispered:

"You had a warrant?! How did you get a warrant?"

"Not a warrant, an authorization from the Met. I had some help," he added reluctantly.

John smirked, but did not insist.

"So… a ring. Did Alexander get killed just for a ring?"

"Of course not."

"What about the little black box?"

Sherlock smiled.

"My guess is that it was just a red herring. A telling one, though…"

"Your _guess?"_ John teased.

The detective sent his friend a dark glance sideways, his eyes turning to slits. As he took the escalator down to the lower level, John arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Men's Designerwear and Shoe Salon."

John blinked, but followed. "You need clothes?"

"No. You do."

"What?"

Sherlock sent him one of his Cheshire cat grins, and the doctor couldn't help but shiver.

"The Christmas Party, John! You know, the one you are so intent on attending…"

John blushed slightly and grabbed his friend's arm.

"Wait, Sherlock… I have a suit, I…"

He was interrupted by the detective snorting. _"Please._ Mummy did say 'proper clothing'."

The ex-soldier frowned, a little affronted; then, remembering where they were.

"No, Sherlock…" His grip on his flatmate's sleeve tightened. "Look, I… you know I can't afford it here…"

"John, you have a platinum credit card. "

"But it's not mine, it's your mo—"

"And she's the one who tricked you into coming. She can pay for your clothing."

At this point, John stopped walking altogether. "No, Sherlock. I can't allow it."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"It's a little too late for second thoughts now. But if you would prefer, I also have one of Mycroft's credit cards."

"Sherlock…" John groaned, trying to hold the detective back and prevent him from entering the intimidating room, "I just won't look right in this stuff, I…"

"You can't attend with one of your jumpers, John," Sherlock retorted flatly.

"I can wear my uniform."

Sherlock froze.

"No," he deadpanned.

"Why not?" John protested. "It should be just fine! I have a dress uniform after all…"

"Come on, John, didn't you say you were hoping to meet someone? Forget the military uniform."

"But many women love uniforms," John insisted.

_That's the problem_, Sherlock thought with a frown – not sure why it was, but definitely opposed to John coming in uniform to the party. Growing impatient, he turned to his friend, and explained:

"If you don't wear what everyone else is dressed in at this kind of party, you'll just look ridiculous."

Sherlock looked away from John's pained glare.

"I'll look ridiculous anyway…" the doctor grumbled, but he followed the detective inside nonetheless. Sherlock repressed a sigh of relief.

Two hours later, they left Harrods with everything John needed for the party - Sherlock looking smugly satisfied and John deeply embarrassed.

"They must have thought I was some kind of a kept man! We don't even have the same name…"

Sherlock furrowed his brow confusedly.

"Would you rather we did?"

"No, God no!" John exclaimed with a jolt.

"Well, that was whole-hearted…" Sherlock commented as he hailed a cab.

John remained quiet.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

When they got back to Baker Street, Simon was watching the telly with Mrs. Hudson in her living room.

"Sorry we were so long, but…"

"John was being so difficult," Sherlock cut in with a sigh. The doctor shot him a miffed look, but the playful smile on his friend's lips assuaged him a little.

"I'm sorry but I'm going to Mrs. Turner's tonight. I did put together something cold for dinner, so you boys don't have to order anything," Mrs. Hudson apologized as she hustled them out of her flat, handing John a tray of cold dishes.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, what would we do without you?"

The landlady smiled fondly and just nodded. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Simon. Hope you have a good night."

The boy smiled shyly and nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It was a pleasure meeting you too."

"Such a good boy, that child, such a good boy…" she muttered as she closed her door. John smiled. Unlike someone… Sherlock seemed to get the meaning of the smirk, for he gave a slightly vexed moue. It made John want to tease him even more.

They went up to the flat and John led Simon to the second floor.

"So here is the room you'll be sleeping in tonight, Simon," John told the boy as he showed him to John's own room. "You have your own cleaning cabinet, if you want to take a shower…"

The young Holder looked around the room somewhat dejectedly, and John felt a little affronted by the blatant contempt. Simon made no disobliging comment, though, and simply thanked the doctor.

"All right, well… If you're hungry, we can have dinner now, too…"

At this, Simon's face brightened slightly, and John sighed in relief. Finally, something snapped the boy out of his torpor.

"Good! Let's go back down to the kitchen, then."

During dinner, Sherlock kept sending quick glances to the boy and John kept shaking his head whenever he caught him. _Just leave him be._ Naturally, Sherlock couldn't stop himself – or didn't care much for John's disapproval – and eventually said:

"So, football game tomorrow… Is your brother coming too?"

Simon nodded. "Yes. Mum told him to. I'm sure he would've preferred to see always does."

"Oh, you shouldn't say that…" John retorted, going for the comforting tone. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed on:

"You don't seem to like Hatty much."

"I don't. She's a liar."

John arched an eyebrow in surprise as Sherlock tried – and failed – to hide his freshly piqued interest.

"How so?"

Simon's brow furrowed with anger and his voice rose in outrage.

"She's not faithful to my brother. I saw her kiss another boy once, but Robert doesn't believe me! Father never liked her either, but Robert was so infatuated he never listened to him… They always quarrelled anyway."

"Robert and your father?" John inquired.

Simon nodded. "Mum said it was just his teenage years, that it would pass. But really, that girl really made his head spin. I wouldn't be surprised if they were the ones who killed Father."

John jumped.

"What?! Simon, you can't say such things just because…"

"But Robert loves her to distraction, and Dad never approved!" Simon cried out.

"Still, it's no reason to…"

"Even if they did kill him," Sherlock cut in, "you have no proof whatsoever, so it's pointless. Don't make such useless accusations when you have nothing to back them up with."

John's eyes widened at the cold tone. How could Sherlock…? Simon's eyes filled with tears of rage and he stood abruptly from the table.

"You're the super detective, you're the one supposed to find proof! But you're just like all the others, you don't believe me and… Mum only believes Arthur and he never liked Dad either! Robert turned against Dad because of Hatty! And you don't believe me because I'm just a child. You're just like everyone else!"

He stormed out of the kitchen and stomped to John's room, slamming the door. The doctor glowered at Sherlock and ran to follow the boy, but he had locked the door. He knocked gently.

"Simon. Simon? "

He could hear the boy sobbing behind the wooden panel and sighed in frustration, not knowing what to say.

"Look, Simon, I'm sorry… It's not that we don't believe you, but we don't have enough data to…" He froze. _Now I'm sounding like him._ Cursing under his breath, he resumed: "Sherlock is a git, but he doesn't mean to be obnoxious. He just states facts very… boldly. He didn't mean to be rude."

The door still did not open. After a few minutes, he gave up.

"I'll be downstairs in the living-room if you need anything… You can come down any time to have dessert, too…"

Once he was back downstairs, Sherlock was already on his (John's, naturally) laptop, looking as innocent as possible.

"That was really uncalled for, Sherlock," the doctor growled.

"I just needed to know if he did have any proof!" the detective protested. Then he added in a grumble: "Obviously, he didn't…"

John shook his head and went back to the kitchen to clean up. He really didn't want another argument.

Sleeping on the couch didn't turn out as bad as he'd thought it would. Sherlock had told him he could use the first floor shower, which he did, before he went to prepare breakfast. Sherlock was playing the violin in his room to while away the time – or to wake up the whole neighbourhood. When it was nine o'clock and Simon still hadn't come down, John decided he should probably wake him up, and went knocking at his door.

"Simon? Simon, it's nine already. Would you like to have some breakf—"

John felt his blood turn cold as the door opened under the slight push. The bed hadn't been slept in, or had been very well made that morning. But most of all, the boy and his luggage were gone.

"Oh God…"

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

_..._

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_._

_~o~_


	4. Chapter 4: The Frog Prince

_~o~_

* * *

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* * *

**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

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* * *

**Chapter 4: **_The Frog Prince_

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* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he ran down the stairs and burst into the living-room, livid. "Sherlock, he's gone."

"Who?"

"The kid! Simon! You know, your mother's friend's child we were supposed to look after? Oh God..."

He did not even stay to hear what Sherlock had to say on the matter, but dashed out of the room and down the stairs in a frenzy to knock at their landlady's door. _Please tell me he came down here because he likes her better than us._

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!"

Soon John heard hurried footsteps and his landlady opened the door with a worried expression.

"John, dear. What is going on?"

"Simon. Is Simon with you?"

She arched an eyebrow, and suddenly her expression became much more severe.

"Of course not. You were in charge of him for the night. What happened?"

"He ran away. Probably. God, I have no idea!" He turned towards the stairs and called, very annoyed: "Sherlock! What are you doing?"

"Most likely looking at the room upstairs," Mrs. Hudson replied, and John was surprised by the coldness of her tone. But he was too preoccupied at the moment to pay it much heed.

They both ran up the stairs and into the boy's bedroom – the one he was supposed to have used, anyway. Sherlock was there indeed, and was presently examining the sheets.

"He only left some hours ago, not last night – very early in the morning, around five I would say. But he didn't slept before that either – he cried on the pillow for some time, hence its messiness, and spent the night in the armchair."

Mrs. Hudson stared, and her gaze hardened.

"He _cried on the pillow for some time_? And may I ask why?"

Sherlock froze on the spot, then gulped and turned towards their landlady very slowly. John blinked. He had never seen such an expression on the detective's face before. Sherlock looked like a child who knew he'd done something bad but had better things to do than deal with it, and who didn't know how to explain this to the person in front of him who was about to explode.

"Sherlock, how hard would it have been to hold your tongue for _one evening_, just one silly evening where you could have pretended to be nice for the sake of a little boy who's just lost _his father_!"

"I didn't–"

"And you," she went on, completely ignoring Sherlock and turning towards the other man, "Dr. Watson, I cannot believe you proved incapable of simply looking after a child for one night. What in the world did you tell him to make him run away?!" she finally asked the both of them.

"Simon said that his brother and his girlfriend were the ones who killed Alexander Holder, his father. We just told him he shouldn't say such things without any proof," Sherlock explained.

"Then it is the manner in which you said it!" she cut in sharply. John had never seen her so angry. In fact, it was the very first time he'd seen her angry at all – and she was furious.

"You couldn't even act like responsible adults for one night! I really expected better from you boys." She shook her head dejectedly, and left the room, grumbling: "And while we're here arguing about it, a little boy is out in the streets all alone. I'll just call the police."

"Don't," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes, I will! Just hope you find him before they do!"

And with those parting words, she was gone. John swallowed with some difficulty; Sherlock sent him a confused look.

"We did mess up badly here," the doctor explained, trying to get some sense of responsibility into the genius' head.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Let's go. We have to find him."

John sighed and followed him, thanking Mrs. Hudson silently for having remembered how ridiculously proud Sherlock was, and how prejudiced against the police.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

Mycroft Holmes knew Detective Inspector Lestrade had been trying to reach him by phone since the previous day, but had only decided to take the call this morning as he drank coffee in his private office at the Diogenes Club, where he was not bound by the absolute silence rule.

"Hello."

"Mycroft? For goodness' sake, I've been calling you since yesterday!"

"And I'm afraid I have been very busy."

"Delivering illegitimate authorisation so your brother could poke his nose about in Harrods _with my badge_?"

Mycroft straightened in his seat imperceptibly, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

"I don't believe I have any responsibility for his ongoing ability to pick your pockets or your inability to prevent it...which if I am not mistaken has been going on for the past five years."

"I'm not joking, Mycroft, you can't give him such important documents when he uses _my name_! We're talking about my career, here!"

"Indeed. Let us change the subject."

"Wha– "

"Would you care to attend the Holmes's Christmas party in Surrey?" Mycroft cut off quite cavalierly.

"Beg your pardon?" Lestrade stuttered, dumbfounded.

The elder Holmes clicked his tongue in annoyance, but repeated calmly:

"Would you like to come to Surrey on the twenty-fifth for a Christmas party?"

"That's not what I called you for!"

"Yes, of course. But I may not be able to attend that party myself."

"No. I can't."

"You can't?" The British government could almost be heard arching a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Why do you want me to go?"

"Well, Sherlock has been dragged into it because our dear Dr. Watson was tricked. But I'm sure my brother will try everything he can think of to get out of actually attending the party, so..." he trailed off lazily, leaving Lestrade to finish the sentence himself.

"You want me to baby-sit him? On Christmas? No, that's too much, Mycroft!"

"Why? It's not as though you have anything else planned."

"And how would you know?"

"Unless you've found yourself another wife who hasn't run off with the PE teacher, I'm afraid that is quite an easy deduction."

"You know what? Fuck off. Your brother's got a new personal nanny now, so just call John – unless he's also told you to piss off. I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe you should just follow his advice."

And with these words, Lestrade hung up ragingly on a rather disconcerted Mycroft.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

_**Have you found him? **_**JW**

_**I answered that question for the sixteenth time seven minutes ago, John, and I told you I would text you once I had found him. What can you deduce from that? **_**SH**

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. Could no one leave him alone for one second? He was trying to think, here. He'd already sent John over to where the football game was to take place, just in case. They'd been going through the whole area with a fine-tooth comb and still hadn't found anything. Sherlock had been forced to call Mummy and ask her to find out discreetly which were the places Simon liked to go to the most, without in fact telling his mother of his running away. It had taken a while, since she was busy at the undertaker's, and it had proved useless.

His phone vibrated again and he rolled his eyes.

_**I think he's probably lost. He must have no idea where he is or anything. We'll never find him.**_** JW**

_**Thank you for your input, John, **_Sherlock started typing back. Then he froze, remembering vaguely having said such a thing to _Anderson_ once, and he felt rather disgusted with the idea of doing the same thing with John. He deleted the text, and started again. _**I know where to find him. **_**SH**

Indeed, his eyes had just lighted on a McDonald's not too far from the playing field. _Not many places open at five or six in the morning._ And while the brat also seemed to have quite an appetite, nobody would suspect that he would go to someplace as working-class.

So Sherlock went in, scanning the ground floor but already walking lightly up the steps, quite certain that he would find the child sitting by a window in some ridiculous attempt at keeping watch on the street to see them coming in. Or policemen, perhaps. The brat might expect them! Sherlock didn't. _Mrs Hudson had just been making an idle threat. He hoped._

_In any case, I've found him first_, he gloated to himself with a smirk.

"Hello, Simon."

"Yikes!" the poor boy exclaimed, jumping on his seat. "Where did you come from?!"

"Downstairs."

"I didn't see you coming in."

"You weren't really looking."

They glared at each other heatedly, like two little boys about to scrap into a brawl, but Sherlock broke eye contact abruptly and sat opposite the youngest Holder.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

"Oh sure. You were just scared because I had run away and you would've had to tell my mother. And yours," he added with an impish smile.

Sherlock actually chuckled at the snide remark, and smirked.

"Don't be ridiculous. I knew I would find you. Your mother doesn't even know you were gone."

Something broke in the gaze of the child, and Sherlock intensified his own, refusing to look away.

"I've been thinking about what you said concerning the involvement of your brother Robert and his girlfriend Hatty Doran."

Simon fell silent, hanging on the consulting detective's words, his eyes wide and clear, shining with doubt and expectation.

"I think you're right."

The little boy's face lit up and he was almost beaming – but his eyes were filled with tears.

"They are involved. But they did not murder him."

Simon looked up at Sherlock in confusion, tilting his head to the side, frowning.

"What?"

"They did not murder him. In fact, they didn't do anything to him at all."

Simon blinked, clearly displeased with the direction of their discussion.

"Then what did they do?"

Sherlock smiled excitedly and jumped back to his feet.

"Well, now that's the whole mystery, isn't it?"

He winked. Completely caught up, Simon stood up as well and followed him.

"But you know!"

"Maybe. I'll need your help, though."

Simon furrowed his brow.

"To do what?"

The detective gave a crooked smile.

"To expose the person who truly murdered your father."

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

"You said you would text me!" John whispered in irritation, reproach in his voice, as they sat in the row next to the Holders to watch the game. They had been invited, and John had been quite surprised to hear Sherlock accept gracefully.

"I did text you that I knew where to find him!" Sherlock retorted just as quietly. John gave him a sullen look, but Sherlock turned to Mrs. Holder instead.

"So," she said, "you said Alexander did not buy anything after all, the day he..."

She swallowed, obviously trying to relieve the tightness in her throat. Arthur put his hand on hers. Robert was sitting, his eyes fixed to his mobile phone, not paying attention at all to his surroundings.

"He didn't," Sherlock confirmed gravely, and John couldn't help but marvel at how smoothly he managed to lie. "We checked with the CCTV, but it seems he hadn't even gone to Harrods."

"But why would he have lied to me?" Gilda murmured, disturbed.

"Perhaps he didn't. He might really have intended to go."

The football game in front of them obviously bored Sherlock to death, but at least he was watching it, unlike Robert who kept texting the whole time, regardless of the chiding or pleading comments from his mother.

"Please, Robbie, it's your brother..."

"And she's my girlfriend!"

"You're seeing her tonight, for Christ's sake!" she scolded him in a whisper.

"I don't know. We're having a fight," Robert grumbled, apparently quite piqued.

Mrs. Holder rolled her eyes, shook her head, and looked at Arthur for support. He smiled leniently, and shrugged.

"They just switched the ball," Sherlock suddenly said.

"What?" John asked.

"The ball. It was lost in the crowd, and they couldn't find it, so they've replaced it. Are you even watching?"

In fact, Robert had been watching his phone; Gilda had been watching her son; Arthur had been watching Gilda; John had been watching Sherlock; and so the detective had been the only one to watch the game, even though _he_ wasn't part of the family.

"Oh, it happens all the time."

"But the ball is golden."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance "It's a golden ball. Isn't it strange?"

They all looked back at the field, and saw that indeed, the ball appeared to be golden.

"It is a bit weird, I reckon," said Arthur, "but who cares? A ball is a ball."

"...Right. A ball is a ball," Sherlock echoed sarcastically. John nudged him in reminder to be on his best behaviour.

They continued watching the game for several more minutes, all of them but Robert actually paying attention. A sudden croaking sound under their seats made them jump. Well, made Gilda, John and Arthur jump. Sherlock just arched an eyebrow, and Robert showed no sign of having heard anything.

"What was that?"

"A croak."

"Why, thank you, John," Sherlock commented sarcastically before plunging under the seat.

"Sherlock! What are you... Aaaah!" Mrs. Holder cried out as Sherlock emerged, holding by the leg... a frog.

"What _is_ this?"

"A frog, John. You know, one of those batrachians–"

"I meant, what is it doing here?" John rephrased, becoming quite irked with his partner's raillery.

"Take it away!" Gilda shrieked.

And to avoid a scene, Sherlock complied quite readily, taking John with him.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. What was it doing here?" the doctor insisted while Sherlock was observing the frog outside the stadium.

"Let's go back and find out where they got that golden ball," Sherlock replied, seemingly oblivious to his friend's question. John sighed, but followed.

It turned out no one really knew where that ball had come from – but all the other spare ones had vanished, and so they'd been glad enough to find this one that no one questioned its provenance.

"But what about the frog?" John persisted. "Whoever put it under our seats must have been behind us."

"Most likely. But he was gone already when I looked. No one there appeared guilty of the deed in any way."

"How can you _guess_ that?"

"It's not guessing!"

"Right, shot in the dark, but a lucky one."

Sherlock clicked his tongue irritatingly – very much like his brother, but he would've been mortified to know that.

"No, John. But it doesn't matter."

"I don't get it."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment (he would never answer 'me neither' to such a remark anyway), then asked:

"A frog and a golden ball... Isn't there a fairy tale that involves both?"

John blinked.

"A fairy tale?"

"Yes, John. Short stories supposedly for children, usually with–"

"Stop it! Stop this, already! You keep talking to me like I'm an idiot, and perhaps I am, but there's no need to rub it in my face all the time!"

Sherlock was speechless at the outburst. What was John on about? His lost look must have annoyed the doctor even more, for he turned away and added:

"Oh, forget it."

Sherlock remained quiet, his gaze cast down as sheepishly as possible. His "kicked puppy" expression must not have been too badly done, for John resisted only a minute before sighing:

"'The Frog Prince'."

This caught Sherlock's attention. His eyes snapped up at his partner.

"The fairy tale. It's called 'The Frog Prince'," John went on. "I think it's a princess who plays by a pond with a golden ball, but the ball falls into the pond and she cries because she cannot get it back. So an ugly frog pops up and offers to get it for her, but then the price is that the princess has to kiss it. Or keep it with her at all times or something, I can't remember. I think her father scolds her and so she has to take care of the frog because he helped her, but she hates it, and ends up throwing it against a wall in rage. And then the frog turns into a prince, they marry and have many children and blah, blah, blah... The usual stuff."

Sherlock looked at the frog sceptically.

"She throws it against a wall?"

"Yes. But please don't actually do that."

"Too barbarous?" Sherlock teased.

John shrugged.

"Pointless and messy. Do you expect it to turn into a prince?"

"Oh no, I have you for that."

The ex-soldier's eyes widened in shock.

"You have me as a prince?"

"I have you to play Prince Charming," Sherlock developed with a sweet, sweet smile.

_Damn him_, John thought.

"You have to talk to Robert."

"And play Prince Charming with him?"

"Don't be daft. Just be nice to him and learn why he quarrelled with Hatty. You're a doctor, you're used to dealing with teenagers."

"I think you're confusing me with a teacher, there."

The consulting detective smirked.

"Just go and talk to him after the game."

"Really, Sherlock. Why me?"

"Because you're better with these kinds of things."

"Sorry, say that again?"

"You're better wi–"

"No, stop there. Again?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You won't hear it again."

"Oh well."

They exchanged an amused smile before worry replaced the jest on John's face.

"But Sherlock, what in the world does this mean?"

Sherlock's expression darkened noticeably, and he looked away.

"It means the murderer received some helpful advice from someone, someone who is now having his fun."

John frowned in confusion, then felt his blood turn cold as realization dawned on him.

"You can't possibly mean..."

Sherlock nodded.

"He's come out to play again," he murmured. His eyes glinted. "Moriarty."

* * *

**TBC**

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_~o~_


	5. Chapter 5: Little Red Riding Hood

_~o~_

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**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

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**Chapter 5: ****_Little Red Riding Hood_**

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...

"But Sherlock, what in the world does this mean?"

Sherlock's brow darkened noticeably, and he looked away.

"It means the murderer received some helpful advice from someone, who is now having his fun."

John frowned in confusion, then felt his blood turn cold as realization dawned on him.

"You can't possibly mean..."

Sherlock nodded.

"He's come out to play again," he murmured. His eyes glinted. "Moriarty."

"So that frog and the golden ball..." John began tentatively.

"...mean that Simon might not have been just a hindrance and a liar, but in fact quite the treasure in what he told us."

They exchanged an uneasy look.

Still, Sherlock wasn't about to drop a case that had Moriarty's involvement, and so they went back to Sussex, at Mummy's. The tall woman greeted them with a wolfish smile.

"The keys are on your bedside table, darling," she told her son. Sherlock nodded absently, so she turned to John. "Oh, I see you've done some Christmas shopping!"

John didn't understand what she was talking about until he remembered he was holding the bags from Harrods. He blushed.

"Um, yes..."

He gave her a nervous grin and ran after Sherlock.

"Whose card did you use in the end?" he whispered, glancing back at the imposing figure.

"Let's go to the love nest tonight," Sherlock answered, completely ignoring the actual question.

"What?" John asked dumbly, blinking in disbelief.

Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"The little cottage, John. Where Mrs. Holder and her husband used to spend some evenings and nights."

"But why do you want to go there? Are we going to _break in_?"

"We have the keys. Please do pay attention."

"Oh, so Mrs. Holder knows we're going to be staying there," John said, reassured.

"No," Sherlock deadpanned.

John stared.

"I don't get it."

"Obviously."

"You're not going to explain?"

"I'll explain in the car. Let's go," he replied, picking up the keys that were indeed on his bedside table.

"What about the Christmas party"

Sherlock glanced at him sideways as they walked down the stairs again.

"You really are excited to go," he remarked, and John heard the surprise in his voice. Evidently, Sherlock could not fathom why anyone would want to attend his family's party.

"No, that's not it. It's just..." _Your mother scares the hell out of me, _he thought. And perhaps Sherlock heard it, because he smirked, and made no further comment.

And so they went back to the car, with John grumbling that Sherlock could've said that they were spending the night elsewhere sooner so he wouldn't have had to carry their luggage back and forth.

"Why do we have to share the same suitcase?" he complained.

"Isn't it easier that way?"

"It is, but _I _always end up carrying it."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but John was certain he was thinking something along the lines of 'even if I had my own suitcase, I'd find a way to have you carry it anyway'.

"So who will be coming tomorrow to the party?" John asked. Sherlock stared, smirking pointedly. He added, "I'm just curious! And keep your eyes on the road, if you want to drive."

Sherlock scoffed, but probably thought it wise to comply.

"The Holders," he said, as if that was the most important, and the only reason he was going. Which was very likely the case, in fact.

"Except Hatty," John commented.

"She's not really a Holder, though. Hatty Doran—"

"Yes, but that's why Robert was so upset during his brother's game. She can't spend Christmas with him. Isn't he a bit too possessive, though? It's perfectly normal to spend Christmas with your own family at that age."

"Oh well, some people are."

"Are what?"

"Possessive."

John looked at his friend curiously.

"Would _you_ be possessive of your girlfriend?"

Sherlock snickered.

"Why, would you want to share?"

"No, God no! But it's just... I don't know, I can't tell if you're really the possessive type or not. It's not that nothing belongs to you at the flat, but you mainly borrow my stuff anyway. You don't like it when Mrs. Hudson hides the skull, but–"

"Are you comparing my potential girlfriend to my skull, John?"

"What? No! Oh, forget it. You're just being annoying."

He turned away towards the window, sulking, and missed the indulgent, almost fond smile that graced the detective's lips for a moment. Soon, however, it became rather wistful.

"If you meet anyone at the party, I won't 'borrow' her, if that's what you mean."

The words made John turn to him again with a jolt.

"That's not what I meant."

"Well, I mean it, though."

John snorted.

"Of course you mean it. You're not going to bother _flirting_ with my girlfriends, since by just being yourself you make them dump me."

The doctor's tone was meant to be playful and teasing, but somehow his voice came out harsher than he intended and he caught the flash of hurt on Sherlock's face. He regretted his comment instantly.

"John, I'm sorry if I–"

"No, it's not... I'm not blaming you or anything. It's not like you're doing it on purpose." _God, that sounded even worse, _John berated himself.

They fell quiet, and the air in the car got heavier with tension. Outside, the rain started pouring, and John was glad they were inside the car.

"Hum... So, why are we going to the cottage?"

Sherlock smiled crookedly.

"To expose the adulteress!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"_What_? You're saying... Mrs. Holder is the murderer?!"

"You'll see."

"Or Arthur? God, he really was her lover?!"

"You'll see."

John pouted.

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Because it's more fun this way."

"You're impossible."

They took the path into the woods, and John looked around with wonder.

"Is all of this their property?"

"Oh yes."

"Rich people really do live in a different world..."

"Dull," Sherlock simply commented. Suddenly he took a turn, leaving the main road to go deeper into the woods, and John frowned.

"Why are you leaving the road?"

"Because if someone comes tonight – and they will – they'll see our car parked in front of the house, and it's unlikely that they'll stop then."

"But where are we going to park?"

"In the woods," Sherlock replied most seriously.

"What? We're going to get lost, Sherlock!"

The consulting detective smirked, and sent John an amused look that made the poor doctor avert his gaze. Sherlock's _looks_ just held amazing power over him, and he hated their effect on his nerves.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

They did eventually park the car in the middle of the woods, in a very small natural clearing. The lane they'd taken was barely passable, and this was a dead end. For some reason, John couldn't help shivering. _Probably because of the horrible weather_, he thought grimly as he looked out of the window. The rain had stopped pouring but it was still drizzling, and the wind must have been especially strong, for the trees were creaking and their branches were swaying. Sherlock got out of the car.

"Are we going to _walk_ there?" John inquired with incredulity.

"Of course. That was the whole point."

The ex-soldier groaned and got out of the car into the rain as well.

"Come on, John, you've been to war. Surely some water won't hurt you."

"That's not the problem! I can't even bring my laptop or anything: we're going to get drenched."

"It's not that far," Sherlock protested.

He was right, but they still got drenched to the bone. When finally the cottage came into view, they were both dripping, cold and shivering, their shoes and the bottom of their trousers covered with mud and dead leaves.

"We should have brought an umbrella," John muttered as they made their way to the house.

"In the woods and with that wind?" Sherlock retorted. He didn't seem to care much about the rain, but he was still shaking. How could he not be? It was so_ cold_, and when they finally got to the door of the cottage, they were both chilled to the bones.

"God, I hope they have a shower and some dry towels in there," John murmured, his teeth chattering.

He got rid of his shoes and jacket in the hallway and turned to Sherlock.

"Where is the bathroom?"

"I'll show you."

Once they got there, however, John threw a towel at him, and ordered:

"Strip."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Take off your clothes, Sherlock," John said in growing irritation.

The consulting detective stepped back, utterly bewildered, and mumbled:

"But why?"

John stared, and then realized why his friend was being so difficult. He turned crimson.

"Hypothermia, you idiot. What were you thinking?"

"Nothing," Sherlock grumbled. "I'm fine, though."

"No you're not. For God's sake, Sherlock, it's the twenty-fourth of December!"

His own words made him freeze. "Oh. It's Christmas Eve," he remarked in a daze. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, John, perfectly accurate conclusion." He tried to slip away from the bathroom, but John held him back with a death grip, and glared.

"Sherlock, take your clothes off right now."

Sherlock blinked. He was oddly reminded of Mycroft in Buckingham Palace, demanding that he put some clothes _on_. Hearing someone being so adamant on having him naked, however, was quite new.

"But what am I going to change into?" he whined, jumping back when John got tired of it and started stripping down to his boxers. Sherlock wondered how in the world he had ended up on Christmas Eve trapped in a bathroom with a half-naked John drying himself with the Holders' towels. _Mummy_, he thought darkly.

"Here," John said, interrupting his musing and handing him dry towels, "just strip and warm yourself up. I'll go find some clothes."

"They'll never be my size," Sherlock whimpered. John rolled his eyes, a smile on his face, and closed the bathroom's door behind him. Sherlock stood there for a moment, staring at the white towel in his hand, and sighed when he realized that the only Holder who might have clothes that would fit him was Robert, the very tall and lanky teenage boy. He moped, but did as John had said.

"I am _not_ wearing jeans," he declared when John was back with Robert's clothes, as expected.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. You have to wear _something._"

"But not a sweatshirt and a pair of blue jeans!"

"I'm the only one who'll see you wearing it!"

"You're forgetting our visitors tonight."

"Oh, don't be such a child. You're going to catch pneumonia if you just walk around wrapped in fluffy white towels." He chuckled. _That would be quite a sight, though._

Sherlock scowled, and took the clothes.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

Sherlock agreed to wear the jeans in the end, and even let John blow hot air on his head to dry his black curls. John had asked him to dry his hair with a towel, and since Sherlock refused to bother with it, he'd had to take care of it himself.

"Is it too hot?"

"It's fine."

"Tell me if I'm burning you."

"I said it's fine, John. Stop fussing."

"I'm not fuss–"

"All right, all right."

"You really are insufferable, you know that?"

"Yes."

They exchanged an amused, knowing smile in the mirror.

Once the both of them were dry and warm, they moved to the bedroom since the windows there were on the garden and not on the front of the house.

"We still can't use the lights," Sherlock said, "but I'm sure they have candles somewhere."

"Candles? Why?"

Sherlock stared.

"Love-nest, remember?"

"Oh. Right."

It only took them a minute to find candles and to light them up with matches they had found in the kitchen. John went to put them back, and as he walked through the living-room again, stopped in front of the bookshelves.

"They have quite a lot of books, here!" he commented, speaking loudly so Sherlock would hear him in the next room.

"Yes," said a voice right next to his ear. John let out a small cry as he jumped in surprise, only to see Sherlock's ghost-like face even more phantasmal in the dim light of the candle he was holding.

"Don't startle me like that!" he groaned.

"Sorry, I didn't know _talking_ to you could _scare_ you, John."

"You didn't scare me," the ex-soldier grumbled. Suddenly his eyes widened. He took the book that had caught his attention from the bookshelf, and showed it to Sherlock.

"Look. The Grimm Brothers' Fairy Tales."

"I can read, thank you very much."

"Oh, stop being such a twat."

"Because it's Christmas?"

"Because I found something useful, for once. If you could memorize more fairy tales, you might get clues that I can't get even if I do know the tales."

"But that's because..."

"I'm an idiot, I know." John sighed. Sherlock frowned.

"I was going to say, that's because you don't think like Moriarty." John arched an eyebrow. "And that's perfectly fine," Sherlock added, just to be sure John wouldn't get even more upset.

So they went back to the bedroom and, since there weren't any chairs, they both sat on the bed, Sherlock holding the candle, and John opening the book. He began to read out loud.

"Cinderella. The wife of a rich man fell sick, and as she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, "Dear child, be good and pious, and then the good God will always protect thee, and I will look down on thee from heaven and be near thee." Thereupon she closed her eyes and departed. Every day the maiden went out to her mother's grave, and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came the snow spread a white sheet over the grave, and when the spring sun had drawn it off again, the man had taken another wife.

The woman had brought two daughters into the house with her, who were beautiful and fair of face, but vile and black of heart. Now began a bad time for the poor step-child. "Is the stupid goose to sit in the parlour with us?" said they. "He who wants to eat bread must earn it; out with the kitchen-wench." They took her pretty clothes away from her, put an old grey bed gown on her, and gave her wooden shoes. "Just look at the proud princess, how decked out she is!" they cried, and laughed, and led her into the kitchen. There she had to do hard work from morning till night, get up before daybreak, carry water, light fires, cook and wash. Besides this, the sisters did her every imaginable injury – they mocked her and emptied her peas and lentils into the ashes, so that she was forced to sit and pick them out again. In the evening when she had worked till she was weary she had no bed to go to, but had to sleep by the fireside in the ashes. And as on that account she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her Cinderella."

"She's an idiot. Do you realize all the different types of ashes she could've studied?"

"Don't interrupt me!" John chided. Sherlock scoffed, but kept quiet.

"It happened that the father was once going to the fair, and he asked his two step-daughters what he should bring back for them. "Beautiful dresses," said one, "Pearls and jewels," said the second. "And thou, Cinderella," said he, "what wilt thou have?" "Father, break off for me the first branch which knocks against your hat on your way home." So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls and jewels for his two step-daughters, and on his way home, as he was riding through a green thicket, a hazel twig brushed against him and knocked off his hat. Then he broke off the branch and took it with him. When he reached home he gave his step-daughters the things which they had wished for, and to Cinderella he gave the branch from the hazel-bush. Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother's grave and planted the branch on it, and wept so much that the tears fell down on it and watered it. And it grew, however, and became a handsome tree. Thrice a day Cinderella went and sat beneath it, and wept and prayed, and a little white bird always came on the tree, and if Cinderella expressed a wish, the bird threw down to her what she had wished for."

"That's preposterous."

"It's a fairy tale, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, exasperated. As Sherlock stretched on the bed and just lay there sheepishly, John took a deep breath and resumed his reading.

"It happened, however, that the King appointed a festival which was to last three days, and to which all the beautiful young girls in the country were invited, in order that his son might choose himself a bride. When the two step-sisters heard that they too were to appear among the number, they were delighted, called Cinderella and said, "Comb our hair for us, brush our shoes and fasten our buckles, for we are going to the festival at the King's palace." Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go with them to the dance, and begged her step-mother to allow her to do so. "Thou go, Cinderella!" said she; "Thou art dusty and dirty and wouldst go to the festival? Thou hast no clothes and shoes, and yet wouldst dance!" As, however, Cinderella went on asking, the step-mother at last said, "I have emptied a dish of lentils into the ashes for thee, if thou hast picked them out again in two hours, thou shalt go with us." The maiden went through the back-door into the garden, and called, "You tame pigeons, you turtle-doves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to pick...

The good into the pot,  
the bad into the crop."

"She's a bit like you. Desperate to go to a stupid ball."

"Sherlock..." John warned threateningly.

"Fine, fine. I'll shut up now."

John smiled, and continued.

And so they read and read, fairy tale after fairy tale, and Sherlock couldn't help but cut John off every once in a while because some snide comment or some whine escaped his lips; but that was just like him, and by the end of the fifth tale _(_'The Valiant Little Tailor'_),_ John had got used to it.

"Would you like me to read?" Sherlock suddenly offered. "If you're getting tired of it."

John was so startled by the considerate offer that he was rendered speechless for a second.

"John?"

"Yes. Sure. Here, I'll take the candle."

Their hands brushed as John grabbed the stick, and he shivered. Sherlock was staring him right in the eye.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm good, it's just..."

A door was slammed somewhere in the house and they both froze, their gazes locked. It was obviously the front door. Sherlock quickly blew out the candle and moved surreptitiously to the door, which they had left open.

"Are you sure no one is in?" they heard. It was a young male voice, but not a familiar one.

"Yes," whispered back another one, quite familiar this time. "I'm sure. Robbie never comes here by himself, and now that his father is... Oh God, Francis, what are we going to do?" Her voice broke and it was obvious that she was crying. John sent Sherlock a confused look.

"_Hatty?_" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "_Hatty Doran?"_

Sherlock brought a finger to his lips, and nodded.

"I don't know, baby, I... This is just so fucked up, I have no idea what to do anymore."

"Maybe we should go to the police," she said in a small voice.

"No! They'll pull me in for murder, you know they will!"

"But you didn't do it, surely they'll–"

"Look, Hatty, I know the cops, all right? They'll be too happy to have the perfect type of the guilty guy, and they won't look any further."

"But we can explain–"

"Who would believe our story?" Francis snorted.

"I would," Sherlock said as he stepped into the room and walked up to them dramatically.

Hatty cried out in horror while the young man she'd called Francis stepped in front of her protectively, grabbing a vase.

"I would put that down immediately, if I were you," Sherlock recommended calmly. Watching, John found it hilarious to see him acting with his usual cool while dressed in green sweater and jeans.

"Who are you?" Francis asked.

"And why are you wearing Robert's clothes?" Hatty exclaimed. Then, as John stepped closer, she recognized them, and paled considerably. "Oh God, it's them."

"Them?"

"The detective guys I told you about."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed," Sherlock confirmed with a grin, and his face looked so scary John thought it was high time he said something.

"We overheard you," he intervened. "If you're not guilty of anything, why don't you want to go to the police?"

"That's none of your business, shrimp."

"Sh... _Shrimp?_" John repeated, indignant. Sherlock actually had the nerve to _chuckle_. He did, however, step in front of John to look down on Francis with contempt.

"I'm afraid it is. And believe me, you really don't want to make your case worse than it is already."

"Shrimp..." John repeated again to himself. Sherlock ignored him.

"He's right, Francis," Hatty insisted, grabbing his arm. "We did nothing wrong. We should talk to them."

"You're forgetting the diamond," Francis said grimly.

"But we didn't steal it!" the poor girl cried in outrage.

"Well. Why don't you start from the beginning?" Sherlock suggested. "Let's take a seat."

They did, spreading themselves out on the couch and chairs. _Shrimp?_ John continued to muse.

"About three months ago, Francis came over from San Francisco, and–"

"Wait, wait. Full name?"

"Francis Moulton," the young man muttered, gritting his teeth.

"Good. Go on," Sherlock added with a perfunctory smile.

Hatty coughed a little, fidgeting, and continued.

"About three months ago, Francis came here and... well, we were together before I moved to England, so..."

"You got back together, but you didn't break up with Robert Holder," Sherlock finished for her. Hatty glowered at him.

"Don't judge me. We weren't married or anything, so this isn't a crime."

"Indeed, it isn't. Let's move on to the interesting part."

Hatty was quite offended at the comment, but their situation was too serious for her to be picky. She went on.

"We started dating again. Then, a month ago or so, Francis received a diamond."

"He _received _it?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving.

"If you stopped interrupting me, maybe we could get somewhere with this!" she snapped.

Sherlock shrugged and let her go on. But she was so unnerved that Francis took over their story for her.

"I received it with a threat letter: if I didn't find a perfect hiding place for the diamond, or if I went to the police, I would be killed within the day."

John gaped, and started paying closer attention to the conversation.

"At first I thought it was a joke, probably not a real diamond or anything, so I didn't even mention it to anyone. But the next day, precisely twenty-four hours after I had received the package, I found some hooded guy in my flat and he almost cut my throat right then."

"He called me and came to me right away," Hatty continued the story. "So I could help him find the perfect hiding place. Otherwise, he would be killed..." Her eyes filled with tears, and Francis took her hand. "Robert was always bragging about his father's car, and since my dad was the one who made the little black box, I knew how to open it and hide something inside without anyone noticing that something was wrong – without it ceasing to work, you see." She sobbed. "I knew that a diamond had been stolen from the Holders', but we couldn't tell anyone or go to the police because it was just... We would've been killed. But then Mr. Holder was murdered and the little black box disappeared and it's all my fault for choosing such a stupid hiding place and–"

"All right, I see, you can stop there," Sherlock interrupted, obviously annoyed at the girl's snivelling. "Now tell me: do you often visit this house?"

"Robert made me a copy of the keys," Hatty murmured, her face still damp with tears.

"So that's what you meant by spending Christmas dinner with your family?" John said, stunned. He felt quite bad for Robert Holder, who seemed completely obsessed with the girl.

"Why didn't you go to the police when Alexander Holder was killed?" Sherlock inquired.

"Because we thought we would surely get killed by whoever took the diamond! Or get framed for the murder!"

"Did you tell anyone, the 'hooded guy' for instance, where you hid the diamond?"

"No. I didn't see the guy after that first night, and at that time I had no idea where we would put the diamond," Francis answered, looking more exhausted by the second – much older, too. The whole affair was obviously wearing him down. _To be fair, it would've been enough to wear anyone down_, John thought.

"And didn't you find it strange that someone would go through all the trouble of sending you a diamond, only to take it back and kill someone in the process?"

"I don't know, it could've been an accomplice. Maybe it wasn't the same person who contacted me or who got the diamond in the end."

"But how could that person have known, in any case? If only the both of you knew where the diamond was–"

"Are you saying we killed him?" Francis asked, standing, fury in his eyes.

"I am saying no such thing, Mr. Moulton. Sit down."

"Who are you to be ordering me around?!"

Sherlock smiled thinly.

"The only one who can prove your innocence."

Francis did not stop trembling, but fell back into the couch in defeat.

"So, just to make sure... Only the two of you knew where the diamond was hidden."

"Right."

"And no one else knew about the diamond in the first place."

"No, just us."

"Good. Well, since the storm is still raging outside, I guess it is a better idea if you spend the night here after all." John blinked, dumbfounded. Was Sherlock actually being _nice_? This was far too suspicious.

"We should really go," Hatty said, "it's barely raining anymore."

"You're not gonna call the cops, are you?" Francis asked distrustfully.

Sherlock smirked.

"We don't want to disturb them on Christmas, now, do we?"

For the first time, a true smile graced Hatty's lips. She sent Sherlock a grateful look. John pinched his lips, and then stood.

"I'm going to go get my laptop in the car. Get some air."

Sherlock, who suddenly seemed to remember his friend's presence, looked at him with surprise.

"But it's still drizzling."

"I'll be fine. I saw an anorak in the hall, I'll just borrow that."

Sherlock stood as well and followed him to the door. There was, indeed, a red anorak with a hood, quite handy presently.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock inquired, observing his flatmate closely.

"No, there's nothing wrong."

"Was it the shrimp comment?"

"I said there's nothing wrong, Sherlock! I'm just going to get my laptop and I'll be back."

"Good."

"Good."

They stared at each other for a second, and then John turned, opened the door, and was gone. Sherlock didn't know why, but he had a bad feeling about this. He opened the door abruptly and called out:

"Are you sure you're not going to get lost?"

"Of course not! Sherlock, you said it yourself: it's not that far."

And then he was gone into the night. Sherlock closed the door after him pensively and went back to the living-room. Hatty and Francis were still on the couch, now snuggling. Sherlock snorted, and they jumped.

"We'll be in the bedroom, if anything happens during the night. I expect you to be gone tomorrow morning and to leave no trace. And I really advise you stop smoking anywhere near this house, Mr. Moulton." He started walking towards the room, then stopped in his tracks. He turned to them again and added: "Oh, and please don't run off to America tomorrow. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It is essential that you remain here, so your testimony can be taken."

"So you _are_ going to go to the police!" Francis exclaimed. Sherlock grinned crookedly.

"Not before I have exposed the murderer myself, Mr. Moulton. Good night."

And with those words, he was gone. This time, he turned on the light in the bedroom, and saw the book of fairy tales still lying open on the bed where they had left it. He wondered whether John would want to keep reading when he was back. Then he realized there was only one bed, and berated himself for having been so _kind_ and _stupid_, inviting the silly couple to stay here and to take the couch.

_I'm an idiot_. His eyes fell on the next tale in the book, the one he had been about to read out loud when they were interrupted by Francis and Hatty coming in. 'Little Red Riding Hood', Sherlock read. _What a weird title_, he mused. As his gaze scanned the text, however, his face fell. He paled. Dashing out of the room, he burst in on the teenagers, who were now doing somewhat more than just cuddling. Completely ignoring their position, he demanded:

"Do you know whose red coat it was?"

"What? What red coat?" Francis said, completely bewildered, while Hatty was trying to hide her chest.

"The one my colleague just went out wearing."

"We don't have a red coat. I don't think Robert has any either," she said.

Panic flashed in Sherlock's eyes.

"John."

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

_..._

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_~o~_


	6. Chapter 6: Cinderella

_~o~_

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..

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* * *

**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

* * *

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* * *

**Chapter 6: ****_Cinderella_**

* * *

...

John was walking in the night through the woods, already regretting his stubbornness. It wasn't as if he _needed_ his laptop absolutely, but the idiotic couple had annoyed him to no end and Sherlock hadn't helped either. Now that he thought about it, they would be stuck in the same room for the whole night... He groaned. Sherlock would definitely make him sleep on the floor, again – just like he'd done during the Speckled Blond case. _Twat_.

Finally, John got to the clearing where the car was parked, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was still cold and windy, and although the anorak protected him from the rain, it certainly wasn't very warm. He opened the car from some distance off by pressing the button on the keychain remote, and he was almost there when he heard footsteps rushing towards him from behind. Surprised, he turned, and saw a tall silhouette in the woods, running towards him.

"Sherlock?"

His friend shouted something, but he was still too far for John to hear him.

"What?" he called out.

"Get away from the car!" came the urgent reply. The doctor frowned.

"What? But why?"

"John!"

"Fine, let me just get my laptop."

He was about to open the door and was already leaning in when Sherlock literally _jumped _on him and dragged him away from the car – and the laptop – so quickly John had no idea what was happening and. He was utterly lost in confusion.

"Sherlock, what–"

As they drew into the woods he was interrupted by Sherlock tripping him and slamming his back against the hard earth. Pinning him against the ground, he enveloped John with his coat and body. John blinked, blushed and babbled:

"Sherlock, what the hell are you–"

BANG. The explosion made the smaller man freeze on the spot. Sherlock pressed him further into the ground in such a harsh and unprotective manner that it took John a few seconds to figure out what his friend was doing.

"Sherlock, move!" he ordered, trying to squirm his way out of the iron embrace.

But the consulting detective completely ignored him, and John only managed to tilt his head out to the side. His eyes widened, filling with horror at what he saw beyond the trees. The clearing was now lit with the macabre glow of deadly fire.

"The... the car! It exploded!" he stuttered, completely shocked.

"And nearly with you, too!" Sherlock growled angrily. "Are you stupid? I told you to get away from it!"

"How was I supposed to know there was a bomb in it?!" John protested. But then he saw the tension in his flatmate's gaze and looked away sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

Breathless, they watched with some fascination as the flames devoured the car. Suddenly John jumped to his feet as realization hit him.

"Sherlock, we're in the woods!"

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock muttered as he stood up as well.

"I mean, we have to call the fire brigade. This is serious!"

"Then let's head back."

John nodded curtly and marched very close to Sherlock as they went back to the cottage.

"Sherlock? What just happened? Someone doesn't want us poking our noses here, obviously."

"Yes. And they have a very good consultant," Sherlock confirmed grimly.

John shook his head to dispel the sense of unease that was filling his chest.

"How did you know?" he asked after a while.

"Little Red Riding Hood," his partner answered simply. John tilted his head to the side.

"What?"

"The fairy tale, John."

"I know the fairy tale! But what does that have to do with anything?"

"The red anorak. It didn't belong to anyone in the house. I'm not even sure the fairy tales book is theirs, now."

John blanched.

"You mean _Moriarty_ actually left it there?" he whispered, unable to repress a shiver. That man really creeped him out.

"Him, or someone else at his order," Sherlock asserted, his brow furrowed.

"But Little Red Riding Hood doesn't end up blown up!" John remarked as he noticed his hands were still quivering. Of course, Sherlock noticed it too. And averted his gaze.

"But you were traumatized with bombs and explosions. It was just a more effective way."

"I wasn't traumatized!" John defended himself, evidently displeased at the statement.

"You were wrapped in Semtex, John."

"I've been to war."

"You went on a vacation for a couple of weeks in New Zealand after the Pool," Sherlock reminded him.

"I had just been almost blown up!" John protested.

"Exactly."

The doctor sighed, but didn't make any further comment.

They arrived at the house where Sherlock called the fire crews (as an anonymous informant, because he didn't want to have to deal with emergency personnel now) while John explained to Hatty and Francis that they'd have to share the car in the morning.

"Oh God..." Hatty murmured, terrified. "Do you think it's the murderer who is trying to get rid of you?"

"I think it is rather someone trying to convey a message," Sherlock answered in John's place darkly, putting a blanket on his colleague's shoulders. John blinked.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you a blanket."

"But I'm not cold."

"You're in shock."

"I'm not in shock!"

Francis and Hatty stared pointedly. John grumbled something incomprehensible as he walked to the room, hiding his embarrassment. Sherlock, completely oblivious to the situation, followed in silence. The young couple exchanged a perplexed look, and then shrugged.

Sherlock carried an armchair into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. John arched an eyebrow.

"Sherlock, there isn't much room on the floor already; if you take a chair it's going to be hard for me to sleep th–"

"You're taking the bed," Sherlock cut him off.

"What?" John asked, certain that he hadn't heard correctly.

"I'm not going to sleep. And you're in shock."

"I'm not in–"

"Hush."

"_Hush_? Sherlock, you can't just–"

But Sherlock was already putting the chair on the left side of the bed, where the bedside lamp stood on a small wooden table. He took the book of fairy tales, and started reading for himself, ignoring his friend. John shook his head, but was too grateful for the bed to complain about anything else.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said before lying down and falling asleep almost instantly.

Sherlock didn't answer, but kept his eyes on his sleeping flatmate for a few pensive minutes before resuming his reading.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

"I can't go down like this," John deadpanned.

Sherlock, who naturally looked gorgeous in his suit, rolled his eyes.

"You're fine. Come on!"

"Why did we even change so early? It's not even five!" the doctor continued, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the mirror of his room's wardrobe.

"Because we'll be too busy to change later. Arthur Holder is using our kitchen to bake his speciality chocolate cake – he's been doing it every Christmas as long as I can remember."

"...And?"

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance, and simply walked out of the room, leaving his friend there.

"Sherlock! Wait!"

John groaned, glanced at the mirror, groaned again, and followed. Sherlock was already going down the stairs, still texting – John hadn't seen him without his phone since morning.

"Who are you texting?" he asked, curiosity filling his voice. Sherlock hadn't received so many texts since Irene Adler's.

"People for tonight's show."

"There is going to be a show?" John said with wonder. Sherlock sent him a quick look before resuming his text. A small, crooked smile graced his lips.

"Oh yes."

"John! Sherlock! Here you are. Dear God, you spend more time dressing up than a woman," Mrs. Holmes remarked as she met them down the stairs.

"It's John," Sherlock commented without looking up from his phone.

His flatmate turned crimson and exclaimed with indignation:

"That's not true!"

"All right, all right," she cut in, her tone assuaging. Then she stared at her son. "Sherlock. I just learnt you have blown up the car again."

"Again?" John repeated dumbly.

"It wasn't me this time," Sherlock grumbled.

"Put that phone down and look at me when I'm speaking to you!"

He complied grumpily, and John couldn't repress a chuckle: the first time he'd met Sherlock, he'd already seen him as a twelve-year-old brat, and Lestrade's "drug bust" had only confirmed this impression. But right now, as he stood sulking before his mother, he truly looked juvenile. Incredibly endearing, too.

"What happened?"

"Someone tried to blow John up."

"John?" she inquired, arching an eyebrow.

"Me?!" John said at the same time.

Sherlock looked at them both as if they were idiots.

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"Wait, wait – why would they want to kill me especially?"

"Who got kidnapped last time?" Sherlock retorted.

"And whose fault do you think it was?"

At this, Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he fell quiet. John regretted his words instantly.

"Sorry, that's not what I–"

"I'll go and see Mrs. Holder, then. She's in the little parlour, right?"

Mrs. Holmes nodded discreetly, and off Sherlock went, before John could say anything more.

"Wait, Sherl–"

"Would you like some tea, John?" she interrupted, holding him back with a very graceful but iron grip.

"I'm an idiot," John murmured, more for himself than to her.

"Oh, don't worry about it, dear. Most people are."

He smiled wistfully at the familiar remark and quietly followed her to the kitchen.

"Oh, Dr. Watson! All dressed up already?" Arthur said as they entered the room. He was wearing an apron and a chef's hat, and seemed to be preparing a snow white icing.

"Let's not talk about it, please," John sighed as he went to the kettle to boil some tea. The cooks seemed to be busy enough already without having to prepare tea for early guests. When he turned, he realized Mrs. Holmes had disappeared from the room.

_Well, at least I won't have to go through _the talk_ about her son or anything of the like_, he mused.

"So, you're taking a little rest tonight, aren't you?" Arthur asked, apparently trying to make small talk.

"A rest?"

"I mean, a break from the investigation."

"Oh." That was a rather strange question. "I guess, yes."

They fell silent.

"It's very kind of you to attend – and even to prepare that cake – after your loss," John said sincerely. Arthur gave him a sad smile.

"Alex was very fond of Christmas. He was always so excited... Rather clueless as to the presents! He always asked me for advice. But you know, the whole Christmas spirit? He loved it."

"You gave him advice about what he should buy for presents?"

"He was a very busy man. Often away from home. He was a mildly eccentric person, too. He loved his wife and children very much, but was quite ignorant when it came to their tastes and preferences."

"I see."

John was adding milk to his tea when suddenly something popped into his mind. He frowned in puzzlement, then went to sit at the table next to Arthur and went on casually:

"So, did you help him with the presents this year?"

Arthur laughed.

"Are you interrogating me, Dr. Watson?" he teased.

"No, no! I was just wondering."

The elder Holder shook his head regretfully.

"I didn't have the time, this year. _He_ didn't have the time..."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. You're doing everything you can to help sort out this tragedy. We are very thankful."

John watched with amazement as Arthur took a cake out of the oven. It was huge, and it seemed to be only the base of a very large pyramidal structure – all in chocolate.

"This is incredible."

"Thank you," Arthur replied with a smile. "It's my Christmas special."

"I've never seen such a gigantic cake."

"It's because each piece is already addressed to a guest. See those little sugar decorations there? Each of them has been engraved in golden letters with somebody's name. Yours is there, too."

John gaped, dumbfounded. Now he found it more ridiculous than impressive.

"Everyone's names. All in sugar?"

"All in sugar," Arthur confirmed. "I always have some blank ones for unexpected guests, though. You know, just in case."

He winked, but John missed it because one of the names had caught his eye.

"What the... He's coming?!"

Arthur took a look at the name and beamed.

"Oh yes! Isn't it wonderful? Quite rare to have the both of them."

"Sorry, I have to go," John blurted before dashing out of the kitchen. _I have to tell Sherlock before he makes a scene._ It took him about ten minutes to find the little parlour, and he would've remained lost in the corridor if it had not been for one of the maids, who was kind enough to stop in her tracks and ask what he was looking for.

John pushed the door open and was about to say hello to Mrs. Holder when he saw the two other guests in the room. He froze.

"John, such a pleasure to see you. Very fitting, the suit," Mycroft greeted without even turning to the door, showing John only the back of his head. There were no mirrors in the room.

"Oh, John, is it? Funny seeing you dressed like this, ha ha!"

John had to fight very hard with himself not to run away. He gave a forced smile.

"Hello, Sam. Funny, indeed."

The old man chuckled.

"And Mycroft. What are you doing here?" he asked, not even bothering with the perfunctory politeness. Mycroft smirked.

"I was told that something fun was going to happen this year," he said. Then, with a sweet, sweet smile that made John shiver, he added: "And how often do I get to see my little brother at Christmas?"

Sherlock groaned and finally John spotted him, standing by the window – sulking. John smiled in relief.

...and jumped in surprise as a camera flash blinded his sight.

"What–"

"That was such a lovely expression you had there, dear, I just had to take it," Mrs. Holmes explained. John blinked and wondered where in the world she had been standing for him not to notice her presence.

"By the other window. But you were so fixed on that one you didn't see me," she told him with a little smile. John sent Sherlock a lost look, but the idiot was still brooding, and the only friendly gaze he met his eyes was Mycroft's.

"Mummy does love to take pictures at Christmas. She spends the whole evening taking shots of everyone and then shares them online."

_What am I doing here? _John wondered, wishing he had never accepted an invitation with so many devious motives. _They don't even want me here; Sherlock's the only one they were trying to get to come!  
_

"That's not true, dear. You are quite welcome."

This time, John's eyes on Sherlock were so desperate that he must have felt them. Sherlock turned to glare at his mother.

"Stop teasing him. He hates it even when I do it."

"Yes, of course, everybody does, Sherly! And don't you glower at me."

Sherlock sighed sullenly and returned his attention to the window. John took the chance to walk over to him while the others resumed their discussion.

"I'm very glad you've decided to attend this year too, despite the tragic events that have affected your family," Sam told Mrs. Holder, who nodded back tentatively.

John couldn't believe this was the same man he'd met at the fitness centre. His hair was tied back and he was so well-dressed he looked like one of those aristocrats from the nineteenth century. Which, on second thought, might not be very normal even for such occasions.

"Definitely not normal," Sherlock confirmed in a low voice. John looked up to him and they exchanged a cheeky grin.

"You should have told me your mother was just like you."

"She's not. She's like Mycroft."

"But all of you can read minds. And what is that guy doing here?" he added in a whisper, indicating Sam. Sherlock shrugged.

"Old friend of the family."

"You knew."

"What?"

"That he was going to that damned fitness centre too. You _knew_ I would meet him."

"...and what if I did?"

"You keep manipulating me!" he exclaimed. Mycroft looked up from his cup of tea, arching an eyebrow. John looked away, and Sherlock scowled.

"Keep your voice down!"

John massaged his temples, grumbling.

"Why am I here, again?"

"Because you were stupid enough to believe I would willingly attend a Christmas party at the family house."

"...Right." He sighed. Then, as realization dawned on him, he tilted his head to the side unwittingly. "Wait... Are you saying you didn't actually tell her anything?"

Sherlock arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Tell what? To whom?"

"Your mother."

"Your stream of thoughts will never cease to amaze me," Sherlock drawled, sarcasm lacing his voice.

"But you didn't, did you? About me needing clothes for the fitness centre, or the keys to the little cottage."

"Of course I am still capable of such small guesses," Mrs. Holmes suddenly chimed in, making John jolt. He hadn't been aware she'd been standing right behind him.

"Would you like some tea?" she offered.

"But I just had some in the kitch–" He stopped in mid-sentence as he understood she'd brought him there only so he could speak to Arthur. His eyes widened and he stepped back with horror.

"Oh, don't give me that look, Dr. Watson. You look like a frightened puppy," she said before turning back to her other guests.

"Frightened puppy?" John repeated in shock. _Shrimp, and now frightened puppy? Damn them! I'm out of here_.

"Oh no you're not," Sherlock whispered, grabbing his arm. "I will need you tonight."

Such a sentence from Sherlock had the power to make John freeze on the spot. He stared, astonished.

_"You_ are going to need _me?"_

"You're repeating yourself a lot today."

"Every day."

"Yes, every day."

An amused smile flashed across their faces, mirroring each other.

"What will you need me for?"

"For the dance."

"_What?_"

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

"Why am I doing this?"

"You're doing fine," Sherlock reassured him as they kept waltzing.

"But why!" John protested.

Sherlock frowned.

"I told you. I especially hate the Christmas ball because Mummy always tries to find me a wife. She wants me married."

"But why do I have to dance with you?"

"So everyone will assume I'm gay and leave me alone."

"But they'll assume _I _am gay too!" John growled furiously, even though he was still dancing, and even leading in what seemed a quite enthusiastic manner – but in fact only betrayed his annoyance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine. If you find a woman you like, I will come with you and explain that you only danced with me because I forced you to."

"That's even worse!"

John was very glad when the music came to an end, and he fled to the buffet before Sherlock could drag him into another one.

"What's wrong with him?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

"He probably feels out of place," Mycroft replied, coming out from nowhere. Sherlock glared.

"_I _feel out of place," he retorted.

"Is that why you wanted him to dance with you?"

Sherlock did not answer, but his face darkened visibly.

"Mummy told me about the car," Mycroft added off-handedly. "You believe someone is coming for him?"

"I don't 'believe'," Sherlock snarled before walking away. Mycroft shook his head patronizingly.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Watson," Hatty said as she came up to the buffet next to John. He turned to her and smiled tiredly.

"Hello, Miss Doran. You don't seem to be having a good time." _Obviously_, he berated himself.

"I'm scared," she whispered. "Francis hasn't been answering his texts at all since I left him at his flat."

She was trembling, and John felt a wave of pity for he, even if he failed to approve of her behaviour towards her official boyfriend. Suddenly John noticed Robert Holder walking to them, his brow furrowed. He glared and took Hatty's hand possessively, as if _John_ could have possibly been hitting on her. _Well, that one is crazy too_, the doctor mused.

"Hello, Mr. Holder."

"Call me Robert. I hate that name anyway."

"All right, Robert."

"If you'll excuse us."

And that quickly they were gone, Robert dragging Hatty away. John stared in bewilderment, then sighed. He definitely felt out of place.

"Hello, there. You don't look as though you're having much fun."

John turned to the unfamiliar voice and saw a tall man, almost as tall as Sherlock, dark-haired, but with tanned skin. He was wearing a military uniform. _Colonel_, John thought. Automatically, he started to give a military salute, then blushed as he realized what he was doing. The man smiled complacently.

"I knew it. Soldier, is it?"

"Captain, sir," John replied sharply.

"Oh, two military men, then!" a woman exclaimed, joining the conversation with two of her friends. They were all very pretty and very richly dressed.

"Iraq?" the stranger inquired.

"Afghanistan," John replied.

"Me too! Funny we've never met. Then again, I didn't deal much with officers."

"Captain."

"Right, captain. And you are?"

"John Watson."

"Pleasure to meet you, John. Since you're not in uniform, there's no need to be so formal. I am Colonel Sebastian Moran. But you can just call me colonel."

_And that's not formal?_ John gave him a stiff smile.

"Yes, why aren't you wearing your uniform?" one of the women asked, tilting her head to the side elegantly.

"He must have wanted to inaugurate that suit!" Colonel Moran exclaimed with a rather condescending laugh. "It's new, isn't it?"

"It is," John replied, his mood darkening by the second.

"I understand. But you really should consider a uniform, next time – if there is one. Women love it," he added with a self-important wink. The three others giggled, and the first one exclaimed:

"Oh, Colonel, you think so little of us! We are not so impressionable, you know."

"Really?" Sebastian insisted with a teasing smile. The woman pursed her lips imperiously.

"You are horrible."

"Then why don't you entertain yourself with our little friend here? I am sure he'll be much more refreshing than I," he told her, bowing mockingly.

John's fists tightened imperceptibly. _Little friend? What the... _Did the man even realize how insulting he was being?

"Oh yes, you're right. What was your name again?"

"Not worth remembering," John mumbled as he walked away.

"Oh. What is wrong with him?" she said disappointedly.

"Probably something with the food. Not accustomed to such rich fare, perhaps?" Sebastian suggested. They all broke into laughter.

_I am not staying one more second in this house_, John thought as he fled the immense reception room and made his way through the various boudoirs and parlours and whatnot. Stupid classy names for stupid classy rooms.

"John!"

John recognized Sherlock's voice, but didn't turn back.

"John, wait! Where are you going?"

Sherlock caught his arm but the ex-soldier pushed him back none too gently.

"Enough! I've had enough."

He dashed out of the last crowded room, Sherlock still rushing after him.

"John, you can't go out!" he called, triggering surprised glances at them.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, isn't it? I don't think we've met."

"No time," Sherlock growled, pushing the stranger away. But the man grabbed his arm forcefully, making the consulting detective halt in surprise. Just as soon as Sherlock did so, though, he relaxed his grip, and held out a friendly hand to shake his.

"So pleased to meet you. I am Colonel Moran."

"I really couldn't care less," Sherlock replied coldly before brushing past the offered hand and resuming his chase.

Sebastian Moran smiled thinly.

"You should," he murmured.

His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket and he took a look at the text.

_**No shooting, Seb. I said just humiliate the pet.**_

The colonel sighed. "I know. But this is boring."

"Oh, colonel!"

He turned with a perfectly composed, charming smile.

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Jones. It's been so long!"

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

"John! John?" Sherlock called as he knocked on the door to his friend's room.

He didn't wait for him to answer and pushed it open. John was bare-chested and already changing.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting rid of these clothes that are not mine and should never have been."

"But what are you going to wear?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Sherlock replied, disbelieving.

"I'm not going back to the party, Sherlock!" John exploded, exasperated that everyone seemed to be considering him a complete moron. "Of course I'm not going to walk in there _naked_!"

"Well, to be fair, you'd make quite an impression," Sherlock said, repressing a chuckle. John glared.

"Funny doesn't suit you. I've told you already."

He averted his gaze and pull on a jumper. Sherlock took his arm.

"Look, John, put on whatever you want. I don't care," he pressed. "But you can't leave this house. Actually, you can't be out of my sight."

"_Excuse me_?"

"You're being targeted!"

"By everybody's mockery? Yes, Sherlock, I noticed that," John retorted bitterly.

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed John's shoulders, making him start.

"No, John! By Moriarty!"

"Moriarty?" John froze. "He's here?"

"I don't think so. But–"

"Aren't you being a bit paranoid? Nothing is going happen to me, Sherlock. I'm not important enough."

"Stop it, just stop it, will you?" Sherlock snapped. John stared in shock. "You're being stupid! Just... don't leave my side, all right? … Please?"

At _that_ word, John gaped. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in irritation.

"I don't have time to deal with this now! Not with the..." He froze, his eye catching a light at the window. He ran to it and looked out. There was a police car.

"It's there already," he murmured. "Come on, John, we have to go back now!"

"What?! Wait, I–"

"Forget the suit! Hurry."

He grabbed John's arm and dragged him back to the reception room, ignoring the puzzled looks at John wearing Paul Smith trousers with a _jumper_.

"Sherlock..." he groaned, mortified. But suddenly the main door to the dancing hall was slammed open and everyone's attention switched from John to the latest arrivals. A short, plump man wearing a police uniform stood in the doorway. He was accompanied by two officers holding a handcuffed young man securely.

"Francis!" Hatty cried out, running to him, obviously forgetting all about her surroundings. Or not giving a damn. John suddenly found her more likeable.

"I'm sorry to interrupt such a cheerful event," the first man said. "But this is an affair of the utmost importance. I must speak to Mr. and Mrs. Holder right away."

* * *

**TBC**

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_~o~_


	7. Chapter 7: Donkey Skin

**A/N:**** So this is the last chapter! For those of you who haven't followed, this was originally a challenge from JuweWright on DA for Sherlock Holmes Week 2012. I decided to make it into seven chapters, one per day of the week. Has anyone guessed what the twelve elements that had to be included in this fic were? :D  
Many thanks to all of you for having followed this story, and especially to all reviewers! I hope you will enjoy this last chapter ;) **_~¤Zoffoli  
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_~o~_

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* * *

**The Adventure of the Dashboard Box**

* * *

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* * *

**Chapter 7: ****_Donkey Skin_**

* * *

...

"I'm sorry to interrupt such a cheerful event," the first man said. "But this is an affair of the utmost importance. I must speak to Mr. and Mrs. Holder right away."

"Who is he?" John asked Sherlock in a whisper.

"The most stupid detective inspector I have ever met," Sherlock mumbled back.

Arthur and Gilda walked up to the police. Simon was holding his mother's trembling hand, and Robert was already dashing towards Hatty, fury in his eyes.

"What's the meaning of this?!" he exploded. Everyone in the room wondered much that same thing.

"Quiet, Robert," his mother ordered, and her tone was so cool that for once, he complied. "Mr. Hupkins," she greeted. "What brings you here tonight?"

"We have performed a search in this young man's flat and we have found this diamond!" the man exclaimed almost excitedly, probably thinking this was the apex of his career.

Everyone in the room started whispering and several women exclaimed audibly.

"Mrs. Holder, do you recognize this? Is this the diamond that you reported stolen a month ago?"

Gilda brought her hand to her mouth in bemusement.

"It is," she concurred feverishly. "Who is this man?"

Arthur's gaze hardened.

"Miss Doran's _other_ boyfriend," he said darkly.

Everyone fell silent, gathering around the Holders to hear the denouement of this terrible tragedy.

"What?" Robert asked, blanching. He looked at Hatty. "Is this true?"

"Robbie, I can explain..."

"You... You two-timed me?"

"Robert, please listen."

"You... You _bitch_! I can't believe this!"

"Robert!" Mrs. Holder cried out as her son launched towards his girlfriend only to be intercepted by one of the police officers. "Behave!"

Robert kept shaking with rage, but remained stiff and straight? With clenched fists, he glowered at Hatty and Francis.

"Enough of this," Gilda said. "Have you disturbed this party only to return our property, Hupkins?" she inquired with a regal coldness, dropping all courtesy. The detective inspector paled.

"No, madam," he stuttered, "I am terribly sorry to say this, but the diamond was found in the little black box that was missing from your husband's car when we found him dead."

Mrs. Holder lost all colour and fainted, falling in Arthur's arms. John, ever the medical practitioner, rushed to her side, pushing those who were on his path away.

"Let me get to her, I'm a doctor! And someone please bring me some water."

Sherlock smiled almost fondly before he resumed observing the scene from afar.

"Most entertaining, Sherlock," Mycroft commented.

"Not yet," Sherlock smirked back.

"You understand, now, why it was of utmost importance that we knew whether this was your diamond or not," Hupkins explained nervously.

"We didn't kill Mr. Holder!" Hatty protested, bursting into tears.

"We didn't even steal the diamond!" Francis added, his voice quivering with anger.

The policeman snorted.

"Then why was it found in your flat?"

"I told you, someone must have put it there!"

"With the box?"

"Yes!"

"So you never put that diamond in the little black box?"

"We did, but because we were threatened!" Hatty cried out hysterically.

"Enough!" Arthur Holder roared, effectively silencing everyone in the room.

"Alexander was killed three days ago," he said more quietly, a catch in his voice. "I lost a brother." He held Mrs. Holder closer. "Gilda lost her husband." He grabbed Simon's hand, but the boy pulled away. "And they lost their father! Show some respect!"

"But why would we steal this stupid diamond? Why would we _kill_ Mr. Holder? It doesn't make sense!" Hatty shouted at him.

"Your Californian boyfriend here seems to have quite a police record," Arthur replied scornfully.

"You–"

"Yes, I saw you with him once, but couldn't find it in me to tell Robert."

"Uncle!" the boy cried out. Arthur ignored him.

"But when the diamond disappeared, I suspected you immediately. Who would have been familiar enough with the house, but still not part of the family and so more likely to commit such a theft?"

"I didn't steal this diamond!"

"Then, the little black box. Only you could have thought of such a hiding place, Miss Doran. You, whose father participated in the invention of the device."

"We didn't do it," she protested, ever more weakly, slowly losing all hope that she would be believed.

"You probably thought this was a good idea, but then you didn't know how to get the diamond back. And oh how you hated my brother..."

"Why would I have hated him?"

"He disapproved of you. With him still alive, you would have never married Robert."

"I never wanted to marry him!"

"Hatty..." Robert said, hovering between rage and despair.

"Really? Then why did you keep dating him when obviously your inclination lay elsewhere?"

"I was scared!" she cried. "You're just a family of wackos! Can you see your nephew? He would've killed me, he would've killed _us_!"

"Ha ha ha, murderers scared to be murdered," he mocked cruelly. The D.I. was looking up at him with admiration.

"Such a brilliant mind, Mr. Holder," he said. "Without your help in mentioning that we had a habitual offender in town, we might have never solved the mystery of your brother's death."

"This isn't right!"

Everybody froze, then turned to the boy who had just spoken. Simon.

"Why would they bother hiding a diamond in that box? And why would they keep it in Francis's flat when they knew the police were looking for it? It would have been smarter to keep it at Hatty's, for instance. Then there's the murder. Why would they bother killing dad, when they could've taken the diamond from the box without anyone noticing?"

Hupkins blinked in mystification, and Arthur frowned.

"My poor boy, I know this must be hard for you, but–"

"And you," Simon went on, "you hated father too! What if their story were true? What if they had been threatened?"

Sherlock smiled almost proudly. Mycroft smirked.

"Oh, little brother, have you taken an apprentice?"

The consulting detective didn't even bother answering. Instead he glanced out of the window, spotting another car just arriving.

"Enough, Simon!" his mother cried, overcome by the unexpected turn of events this evening.

"That's quite enough, indeed. Thank you, Simon," Sherlock chimed in, stepping to the front of the crowd with his usual dramatic flair. John rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Holder," Sherlock went on, pacing the middle of the room theatrically, "there is also something that _I_ would like you to identify."

He had barely finished his sentence when the doors to the room were slammed open again. Greg Lestrade came in, dragging behind him a young handcuffed man. The poor lad looked around completely frightened, and seemed to panic even more when his eyes met the gaze of Hatty and Francis. The latter let out a cry of horror and stepped back.

"What is this?!" Hupkins exclaimed. He turned to Sherlock, then to Lestrade, then back to Sherlock, his gaze confused. "Who are _you?"_

Sherlock sent a quick glance towards the D.I., who got the message and coughed before saying:

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I am here as part of the Met's investigation of the murder of Alexander Holder."

"What? But–"

"Detective Inspector, would you mind bringing our young friend closer?" Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade grumbled something like 'I'm not your flunkey', but complied. Arthur Holder scowled.

"What is this, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, I was going to ask you. Do you recognize this man?"

"Not at all."

"Liar!" the other cried out in distress.

A shiver of anticipation ran through the crowd. The young man went on:

"You paid me to deliver that damned diamond and to threaten that guy, and I had no idea someone would get killed in the process! You never warned me!"

"Arthur, what is he on about?" Mrs. Holder inquired, her voice trembling. She tried to get back to her feet without help but failed miserably. She caught at John's arm just in time and pressed his hand; Sherlock frowned.

So did Arthur.

"I have no idea what this is about, Gilda," he replied darkly. "But perhaps you may want to enlighten us, Mr. Holmes, since you seem to be the one to have invited this man I have never before seen."

"You're lying!" the stranger shouted, and Lestrade grabbed his arm so he couldn't launch at the elder Holder. "That's enough, now," he warned. "We've got the point."

"Enlighten you?" Sherlock repeated. A small smirk played on his lips and John mirrored it unwittingly. "With pleasure. This is why I came here in the first place, after all."

He turned towards Lestrade and said:

"This young man you claim to have never seen is Alan McGall, a minor delinquent of purely local fame. Well, when I say fame... In any case, he was having some money problems – his landlord was kicking him out because he couldn't pay the rent. But, luckily, said landlord was quite generous. He told Mr. McGall that in exchange for a trivial little service, he would not throw him out in the cold this winter."

Arthur had paled, his teeth clenched, but his expression could have been one of indignant rage, rather than guilt.

"Isn't that right, Mr. McGall?" Sherlock added with a polite smile, tilting his head.

"That's right! You told me I just had to deliver that package to that guy in his apartment, then the next day you told me to scare him! Oh, nothing bad, just a joke, you said. I just had to freak him out a bit. You never said anything about _murder_, you bastard!"

"Sir!" Arthur burst out. "I do not know you and you most certainly–"

"Oh yeah you do, you–"

"Enough," Lestrade growled. Then, in a whisper: "Just let the smart guy do the talking, and you'll be better off."

Sherlock heard him nonetheless and an amused grin spread across his face. John shook his head, jaded.

"So Mr. McGall did bring the package to Francis Moulder's apartment, and threatened to kill him if he did not hide the diamond within twenty-four hours."

"Do you have proof?" Hupkins asked.

"The package and the letter had to be destroyed or Francis would be killed," Sherlock replied evenly.

"Ha, that's a bit too convenient!" Arthur snorted.

Sherlock's eyes drew down into slits.

"So Francis went to his friend Hatty and asked for her help. Together, they destroyed the evidence and hid the diamond in the little black box installed on the dashboard of Alexander Holder's car."

"But why? This is getting unnecessarily complicated," Hupkins grumbled.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Miss Doran's father helped to create those little black boxes. She was familiar with the way it was made and knew how to hide something small in it without damaging the box. It was the perfect hiding place, one only she could think of. And you knew that, didn't you, Mr. Holder?"

"I don't see what–"

"You said it yourself. You _saw_ Hatty with Francis. You knew he would eventually go to her. Or perhaps someone suggested it to you, but that's not our problem here."

The consulting detective's gaze became more intense for a second, and John shivered. So Moriarty was behind this after all? Had Arthur Holder been one of his clients? _Please, please, dear Jim, help me get rid of my brother and frame somebody else for it._

"So," Sherlock resumed, "once you knew where the little black box was, you greeted your brother with wine the night he came back from London, put oxycodone in his glass, and left him there in his car with the engine still running all night."

"How dare you!" Arthur vociferated. Sherlock returned his gaze coolly.

"You took the little black box that contained the 'stolen' diamond and then asked Mr. McGall to hide it in Francis Moulton's apartment."

"This is preposterous! I demand that you cease these false accusations immediately!"

"Do you have any proof at all?" Hupkins concurred.

Sherlock stared.

"Are you suggesting that the testimonies of these three individuals, Hatty Doran, Francis Moulton, and Alan McGall amount to nothing in the face of that of Arthur Holder?"

"No, I–"

"But why would Arthur steal my diamond? I don't understand any of this!" Mrs. Holder shrieked, making John jump.

"I didn't–"

"As Mr. Holder himself said, only someone familiar with your room would've known where that diamond was kept. Aren't you surprised that this is the only item that was stolen that night?"

"I never thought–"

"Well, think now: who was in love with you and most jealous of your husband?"

Gilda paled.

"No! You're wrong, this can't be..."

"Who always gave your husband advice as to what you would like as a present?"

She fell silent, and Sherlock turned to Arthur.

"This year, though, you'd had enough, isn't that right? This was just the last straw: that jewel you intended to buy yourself, perhaps, but which your brother decided to get for his wife. _His_ wife, not yours, and yet you knew her so much better than he."

"You're insane, Mr. Holmes. You told us yourself that Alexander did not buy anything the day he died."

"I lied," Sherlock answered with an innocent smile. Gilda's eyes widened.

"You lied?"

"Yes. Alexander Holder did buy something that day at Harrods. Something _you_ had the idea of originally, isn't that right? Mr. Holder."

Arthur was now trembling with fury. He glowered at the detective.

"No ring was found on my brother, Mr. Holmes."

"I never said anything about a ring."

Mrs. Holder let out a small, horrified cry, but the flash of worry that had traversed Arthur's gaze was soon replaced by a cold, condescending expression:

"Well, I did: that's what I suggested my brother should buy for Gilda this year."

"Indeed, Mr. Holder, indeed. But you made a very stupid mistake."

"Did I, now?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You couldn't help it, could you? That ring you had so carefully chosen yourself for the woman you loved..."

"Mr. Holmes!" Gilda cried out with outrage.

"...you took it from your brother's body in the car. You still wanted to give it to her."

"Enough!" Arthur shouted. "I will not let myself be humiliated by–"

But Sherlock wasn't even listening, and was walking straight to the giant chocolate cake that had pride of place in the middle of the buffet table.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Holder asked, urgency in his voice. John stared at him carefully. Now Arthur was starting to panic.

"Giving Mrs. Holder her present," Sherlock replied in a sing-song voice. "Ah!" he said as he cautiously picked out the piece of cake that had Gilda Holder's name on it. "Here it is!"

"Mr. Holmes..." Arthur growled threateningly. But John put a hand on his arm in warning, and something in his eyes told the baker it wouldn't be wise to try anything against Sherlock.

The consulting detective presented the piece of cake to Gilda, who looked at him with bewilderment.

"You favourite fairy tale is Donkey Skin, isn't it, Mrs. Holder?"

She blinked, more and more befuddled with each minute passing.

"It is," she confirmed. "But how do you–"

"There was a book in your little cottage. _Grimm's Fairy Tales_. The pages were much more used for 'All-kinds-of-fur', indicating that it had been read a lot. But you preferred another version, didn't you? Andrew Lang's, perhaps, or Perrault's? You had all of them printed and neatly folded between the pages of 'All-kinds-of-fur'."

Now even John was starting to think Sherlock had gone bonkers – Donkey Skin? What did that have to do with anything? But John was much too accustomed to his friend's brilliancy to doubt him for even a second, however much he might have trouble keeping up. Sherlock noticed the stares, however, and so went on to spell it out for his audience:

"A princess posing as a slattern bakes a cake for the prince she has fallen in love with and hides her ring inside of it. Of course they end up married and living happily ever after. Well, I'm afraid the ending is going to be quite different this time."

"What do you want me to do with this piece of cake?" Mrs. Holder asked, confounded.

"Eat it."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine, don't eat it. We'll just smash it."

And so he did, under Gilda's horrified stare. Like everyone in the room, she was beginning to wonder if Sherlock wasn't raving mad. Well, everyone except for five people.

But soon a triumphant grin illuminated the detective's face and he showed the little plate to Hupkins jubilantly. In the brown and white ruins of the chocolate cake shone brightly the AS29 diamond ring Alexander had bought at Harrods the day he was murdered.

"How... Why..." Hupkins stuttered.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"I believe I just explained everything in detail."

"You're lying!" Arthur exclaimed. "I had no idea there was a ring in that cake. You were the only one who knew! You must have put it there yourself! I'm being framed!"

"That's quite enough, Arthur," cut in a sharp voice.

Everybody turned to Mrs. Holmes, who had just spoken and was now walking towards her younger son.

"Sherlock did not go into the kitchen once today. There's no way he could have put a ring in your speciality cake."

"But he did!" Mr. Holder protested, pointing at John accusingly.

"_What?_ I didn't even know you were–"

"I am sorry, Arthur, but there are cameras throughout the house. It will be easy to see you put the ring in the cake," Mrs. Holmes said coldly.

Sherlock was beaming like a kid at Christmas – and to be fair, it _was_ Christmas, John reminded himself. He smiled indulgently, shaking his head.

Arthur Holder was pale with rage.

"He didn't even know her tastes," he spat bitterly. "After thirty years of marriage!"

A disturbed murmur traversed the crowd of the guests, and Hupkins had changed his stance.

"Mr. Holder, you–"

"Yes, me!" Arthur yelled, making everyone jump – except the Holmes. "I was the one who took care of his wife, the one who raised his children! He lived in his own world and he was never there for his family, never! And yet he was the one who got everything..."

"...The wife, the children..." Sherlock trailed off.

"What do you know? You don't have anything!" Arthur exploded as the police handcuffed him to take him away.

Sherlock blinked.

"I have a skull. And John, too," he added as an afterthought, tilting his head to the side pensively.

Arthur was too furious and too perplexed to reply anything to that.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

Eventually, Arthur Holder was taken away by Hupkins, who left wondering whether after this dramatic turn of events, this case would still help to boost his career.

While John was trying to revive Mrs. Holder, who had fallen into a state of utter prostration at the disastrous conclusion of the investigation, Lestrade discreetly handed to Sherlock a package in a nondescript plastic bag.

"This wasn't exactly easy to find on such a short notice," he complained with a frown.

"But I was busy," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, and _I _wasn't?"

The consulting detective smiled. Lestrade seemed to realize something and froze, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

"You didn't just call me because of this. It wasn't even for the case – you owe me one, Sherlock, seriously." Then, in a whisper: "I had nothing to arrest that poor bloke, nothing but your word!"

"Oh please, this was just _acting._ They'll never know about it at the Met."

"I hope not," Greg grumbled. "But that's not what I was going to say!"

"No. You were going to say he also called you because he knew _I _had and wanted to prove that he could get you to come and help with the case when I couldn't make you come to babysit him," Mycroft intervened suddenly, making Lestrade start.

The D.I. glared.

"You brothers give me a headache. I don't even want to see your faces tonight. Watch: I'm going to go have a piece of that cake and then consider drinking too much."

And with those words he left them standing there and marched to the buffet. The Holmes brothers exchanged a look.

"So..." Mycroft began, and from his tone Sherlock knew this couldn't be good. "Is this your ring?"

Sherlock glared and stalked off in imitation of Lestrade to join John at the door.

"Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed Colonel Moran as they were leaving the room. "This was truly brilliant. Your deductions – amazing!"

Sherlock stared dispassionately. John shifted a bit on his feet, thinking he should be embarrassed at his friend's attitude but so annoyed with the bloody _colonel_ that he wasn't too intent on making it up for him. Ultimately, his sense of courtesy won and he said with a stiff perfunctory smile:

"He means 'thank you'."

"No, I don't," Sherlock deadpanned. John stared, his eyes slightly widened, but the detective ignored him and went on: "Also, if you were never to come near us again, that would be great."

"You mean come near Dr. Watson?" Sebastian Moran retorted with a sly smile.

Sherlock glowered but did not bother to answer. Grabbing John by the shoulder, he dragged him away from the ball – away from that other murderer he had no way to expose.

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

They packed the very next morning, as Sherlock was very impatient to return to Baker Street and hopeful of another case. John himself had had quite enough, and wasn't too keen to delay their departure either.

"Why didn't you tell me about Donkey Skin?" John asked as he folded one of Sherlock's shirts to put it back in the suitcase, having folded all his clothes already.

"It wasn't necessary."

John frowned.

"I really hate it when you leave me out like this."

"I didn't–"

"Never mind. But there's still something I don't get. Moriarty took so much trouble to devise this case for you – I mean, Arthur Holder was obviously a pawn and Moriarty must have known from the beginning that you'd expose him. So what's with all the fairy tales?"

Sherlock's brow darkened visibly, and he turned away from John, looking out of the window.

"Do you know what fairy tales are for?"

"To teach some kind of lesson for kids?"

"Precisely."

"It's a lesson, then?"

"Of some sort."

"Sherlock, can't you be more specific?!"

The detective glanced back at him, then outside again.

"What was Moriarty's message?" John insisted.

"Same as the previous one, I imagine."

John arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You mean with Irene Adler?"

Sherlock nodded. Since he kept silent, John continued:

"And that is?"

The detective furrowed his brow and replied collectedly:

"That 'love' is a dangerous weakness."

John was staring, so Sherlock rolled his eyes and added:

"Arthur Holder had everything a happy and successful man could wish to have. But he loved his brother's wife, and that ended up turning him into a murderer. He lost everything eventually, and will even be separated from the one person he wanted to be closer to."

John stared at his friend with surprise. Sherlock's gaze became distant and he added in a lower voice, almost for himself:

"Such a fool."

An awkward silence followed his words.

Other words were echoing in Sherlock's mind as he went to the desk and picked up the package Lestrade had given him the previous night. _Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock._

"Here," he said, handing the bag to John.

The doctor blinked and tilted his head to the side questioningly.

"It's for you," Sherlock developed, as if he hadn't made that quite clear already – but he was never sure, with John.

"I got it the first time, I'm not an idiot!" John protested. "Well, maybe I am," he amended. "At least by the Holmes's standard. But I–"

"Won't you just take it and open it? It's a bit late, but you went to bed straight away last night, so I thought I'd just wait until today. And who cares about the date, really? Well, actually, you might be the type who would."

"Wait, wait... Are you saying this is a Christmas present?" John asked, dumbfounded.

Sherlock nodded. John gaped.

"Just open it!"

"Fine, fine!"

He unwrapped the package and his eyes widened.

"Sherlock, this is–"

"It's the same model," Sherlock cut in promptly, not liking John's touched tone which was very likely to lead to sentimental thanks. "Same colour, too – dark red. Of course you've lost the contents, but–"

He froze as John gave him a spontaneous and rather forceful hug. _Military man_, Sherlock thought as he tried not to stiffen too much.

"Thank you," John said with simplicity.

Sherlock hadn't expected him to be so happy about his new laptop. A small smile played on his lips as he replied:

"Well, how else are you going to keep blogging about me?"

At this, John laughed wholeheartedly and broke the embrace, nudging Sherlock away playfully.

"You twat!"

"So, you are packing," a voice interrupted from the door. This time, John did not jump, but turned to Mrs. Holmes with a smile.

"Oh yes."

She smirked.

"I hope you have enjoyed your stay, Dr. Watson."

"Oh yeah, it was great. I mean, the fitness centre, the little chat in the kitchen with the guy who had killed his brother, the beautiful party you had organized just to expose the murderer..."

"I'm glad," she said with a grin that almost made John shiver.

"Well, then, off you go. Mycroft has arranged a car for you, since you blew ours up, Sherly."

"You have others."

"I don't want them to be blown up."

Sherlock pouted, but did not talk back.

"I hope to see you soon, then!"

"No, you won't," he grumbled as he walked past her to leave.

"Sherly."

He sighed, stopped in his track at the door, and went back to kiss her on the cheeks. Then he left for good, without another word. John stared, flabbergasted.

"He just kissed you."

"I'm his mother."

"But he's _Sherlock Holmes_!"

"I raised him that way," she replied with a crooked smile.

John did not ask in what way and simply thanked her for her welcome before hurrying after Sherlock.

Mummy shook her head fondly.

"Perhaps not so frightened, but definitely a puppy."

* * *

_¤ oOo ¤ _

* * *

The dark room was only lit by the computer screen and a small, dim lamp on the table. The images showed a certain living-room, in a certain London street, where a certain detective and his blogger lived. Presently, they were respectively slouching on the couch whining, and reading (or trying to read) a newspaper.

Jim Moriarty grinned at the screen.

"Mirror, mirror, tell me, who is the most intelligent in the world?"

He burst out laughing and turned to the man sitting in a chair next to him.

"Look at them, Seb. Aren't they adorable?"

Sebastian looked up from his journal – the latest _Hunting Magazine_ – and glanced at the screen lazily.

"You're just as bored as he," he remarked before resuming his reading phlegmatically.

"Yes, but wasn't he so much fun to watch!" Moriarty replied excitedly. "That Holder fool really was worth the trouble after all! Well, only useful as far as he was a friend of the Holmes's."

"So the mother would obviously call her son. Yes, yes, we all know how brilliant your brilliant plan was."

Moriarty shot his henchman a dramatically miffed pout, and turned to the screen again, staring at Sherlock intensely.

"Do you know what fairy tales are for, Sherlock? To teach children how to deal with the harsh world out there. So, have you learnt your lesson?"

"He can't hear you, you know," Moran commented off-handedly. Jim smirked.

"Oh, I think he's heard me all right."

Something in his tone – the dark sparkle and the dangerous vibrancy resounding in it – prompted Seb to look up from his magazine again and watch the exhilaration distorting Jim's features and making his eyes shine as he concluded:

"But no worries, dear! You won't be bored. The fairy tales aren't over yet. And the next ones will be rather... _Grimmer_."

He grinned.

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

_..._

_.._

_._

_~o~_


End file.
